


gotta fend for yourself

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternative Universe - Lost, Alternative Universe - Modern Setting, Am I really doing this, Every Character Is A Disaster, F/F, F/M, Lost AU, M/M, Multi, Nonbinary Character, did y'all expect anything better from me, the slow descent of the author
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-05-16 04:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 35,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5813446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But if we can't live together, we're going to die alone."</p><p>(or: in which a plane crashes onto an island, and really, what are the odds?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. pilot (part one)

**Author's Note:**

> so yeah. i did the single most in character thing possible and wrote the hamilton lost au.  
> some notes:  
> 1) you need literally no prior knowledge of lost for this. if you've never seen it, please get rid of any preconceived notions as to what it is about and bear with me here. for those of you who are familiar: i'm sticking with the setting, the framing device, some of the mythology, and the flashback style. that's it. the plot will differ. i promise.  
> 2) phillip is ham's baby bro in this. i will go into this later!  
> 3) i am literally garbage. here's a short chapter to get us started.
> 
> UPDATE 2/13: [here is a guide to lost's mythology in case you're curious!](http://oceanicairline.tumblr.com/post/139236181508/lost-a-guide-for-the-uninformed-by-someone-who-is)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :/

_September 2, 2015_

 

It takes Alex a few minutes, lying on the ground, bloodied and confused, his ears ringing, to understand his situation.When he does understand it (turbulence turned to falling, turned to a plane split in half, turned to screaming in horror,) it takes him a solid thirty seconds to stand up and survey his surroundings. He would criticize himself for being so slow, in better circumstances.

 

Everything is on fire, from what he can tell. Not everything, that’s hyperbolic, but most things, at least. He sees people screaming, running around. He sees people on the ground, hurt or dead, prays that none of them are Philip, oh God, Philip was there, where is Philip, and he runs over towards the first body she can see that, from a distance, could be considered “still alive.” It’s a woman, mid-forties, black, short. She’s awake, she’s mostly alert, but she’s not moving. Fear, he presumes. He tries to talk to her, but his throat is dry and his breath isn’t there.

 

“Are you alright?” he gets out, after three deep breaths. That’s what his mother always had him do. The beach he’s standing on reminds him of her, he supposes. Reminds him of life before everything happened.

“Fine,” says the woman, but she doesn’t sound convinced in her own words, “I’m fine, dear, and you?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he says, and just like the woman, he doesn’t believe himself, “I’m Alex, do you need help up? You should try and find a place safer than this, really, you’re so close to the fuselage, you might get hit by something and— also have you seen my little brother, he’s eleven—“

 

He hears a scream. The woman and he look around, he’s afraid it’s Philip, what if Philip is hurt or dead or or or. He would never forgive himself.

 

“I’m Martha,” says the woman, breathless. He supposes they all are, “Thank you for the offer. I haven’t seen anyone younger than you, I’m sorry dear.”

 

Martha doesn’t go to safety when he helps her up, though, she runs back into the action, and Alex, as reckless as he knows it is, joins her.

 

The next five minutes flash by, bright colors and fire, and blood, so much blood. Alex sees the other survivors, running, trying to get away, to save their loved ones, and there’s his own.

 

He finds Philip, alive, in the sand, his side bleeding, mid-panic. Alex picks him up. He, selfishly, he knows, runs away,finding a shady spot near the jungle— they really did crash in the tropics. He takes his button-up off, and begins trying to wrap his brother’s wound with it. Philip squirms, but it’s okay, it’s okay.

 

“Count, baby,” he says, and Philip starts in French, then moves onto English, then Spanish. They’ve practiced this a million times.

 

The noise dies down, after a few hours, and everyone finds their own sort of corner. Martha is off with a man about her age, they’re embracing; they were friends, or a couple, Alex assumes. He stays with Philip, for a while, but Philip gets restless and begins to hobble towards the rest of the people— Alex protests that the kid needs to stay still or the injury will get worse, but to no avail. He, of course, chases after.

 

“Yo,” says one of the others, seeing Alex, who has, at this point, caught up to Philip, “Mind helping me set up this fire?”

 

 

 

— 

 

_September 2, 2015, earlier_

 

He hates flying, he really does. Alex would probably hate it less if he could sleep, but he can’t sleep on planes— well, he never sleeps, anyways, but planes make even the slightest possibility of rest seem impossible. Philip, meanwhile, sleeps like a baby. Alex pets his brother’s hair, soft and warm, and tries to concentrate on his drink. The attendant had winked at him, promised him it was strong, said it would be their little secret. He’s thankful, honestly.

 

They hit turbulence, and he takes a quick swig. A woman across from him, wearing red everything, bites her lip, holds on tightly to the armrest. He follows suit, not the worst idea.

 

“My husband,” she pauses, at that, unsure in the title, “Always tells me that I shouldn’t be scared of this kinda thing.”

 

She smiles at him, uncomfortably.

 

“I don’t understand what he means, these things are deathtraps,” Alex says, hoping his laugh isn’t pained.

 

She opens her mouth to respond, but the plane shakes again, and doesn’t stop. He can hear someone screaming, and then the masks drop down. The plane seems to split, he can see the night sky so clearly, he can smell metal burning, it is horrifying.

 

His last thought is to try and grab Philip’s hand, but it slips as he blacks out.

 

 

 

— 

 

_September 2, 2015_

 

The man who started the fire is part of a clique— his name is John, the man, and in better circumstances, Alex probably would have made a move on him, he’s got a cute voice, nice hair, beautiful eyes, and seems smart as all hell. The rest of them haven’t introduced themselves, but he heard one of them yell for “Eliza” to the response of “What, Peggy?” It’s too dark to see anyone clearly. Philip is glued to Alex’s hip, and John tries to joke with the two of them. It’s uncomfortable, like Alex is in a new country again, and everyone else already fits in and knows their way around.

 

He needs to rise up again.

 

“Y’all,” says John, when the fire area is built and the flames are catching. Alex can see his face completely at last and he (along with every other person around this fire, Alex decides) is beautiful, “We need to introduce ourselves to each other.”

“You go first, then,” says a girl, with her arms crossed.

“Sure. Name’s John, I’m a med student.” Alex’s immediate thought is that he should have John help Philip, but he might not be much help with no supplies.

“Peggy,” says arms-crossed girl, “I’m a freshman at UCLA. These two are my big sisters.”

“Eliza,” says the girl next to Peggy, “Like they—“ (oh, shit, Peggy isn’t a girl, Alex should not have assumed, shit, shit, shit) “—said, I’m their sister, I’m a teacher’s aide.”

The taller of the sisters finally speaks, “Angelica. I’m a journalist, I cover politics and human rights, if you ever wanna have a chat that isn’t about being stranded on a deserted island.”

“We’re not sure if it’s an island, Ang,” says Peggy, “It could be anywhere. Or if it’s deserted.” Eliza giggles.

“Call me Mulligan,” says the next guy, and Alex gawks, “Fashion designer.”

“Herc? I’m Alex, my brother here and I crashed at your place when we first moved to the States—“ Alex says.

“Holy shit! I remember y’all! God, you’ve grown, Phil,” Mulligan almost yells, smiling wide, “Nice to see some familiar faces!”

“Cute,” says the next person, almost bored, “I’m Aaron. I’m a lawyer.”

Philip goes next— “I’m Philip, I’m eleven, this is my brother, and I’m a poet.”

 

He says this quickly, like it's all one word, but everyone seems to understand.

 

Eliza tilts her head, getting the hair out of her face, “You wanna read me one of your poems?”

Philip blushes, says no, “They’re not good enough yet.”

“Be sure to tell me when they are!”

“We’ll get rescued by the end of the week,” says Aaron, a little more open, jokey, “Better finish ‘em fast.”

Alex chuckles softly, realizes he’s last, then says, “Name’s Alexander Hamilton, call me Alex. I’m from New York, studying law— and I write and wait tables on the side, and I hope-“

 

That’s when the rumbling starts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please tell me if you hate this or have any feelings on this whatsoever attention keeps me alive


	2. pilot, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the reader learns a bit about mr. burr and a bit about a ms. schuyler, and also hears some french.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand i am still snowed in, which means another chapter of this garbage. enjoy.
> 
> i am sticking with lost's flashback formats, so this chapter, like its episode counterpart, gets two centric characters with one flashback apiece.

_September 2, 2015_

 

Aaron stays still when the ground starts to shake, and he grabs onto that girl Angelica’s shoulder for balance. She glares at him, but doesn’t push him off.

 

What he is seeing is straight out of a bad sci-fi movie, with a pillar of smoke (no, not smoke, more sold than smoke) erupting from the jungle, knocking down trees. He lets out an involuntary gasp, and hears Mulligan, who he had sat next to on the plane, scream. Angelica seems to remain stoic, only looking over to make sure her siblings were okay, which they are.The set of brothers— the older one, Alexander, seems more disturbed than Philip, the little kid, and Aaron can’t see John’s face to read his reaction. It’s easier to focus on the people than the monster, which probably isn’t a monster. It’s probably just a trauma-induced something. He needs to be rational, somebody in this group does.

 

The horror show ends as quickly as it begins, the smoke-thing retreating back into the deep of the jungle, with a soft “What the fuck?” from Mulligan, and audible hyperventilating coming from Alexander and Peggy both. Angelica shakes Aaron’s hand off of her, and he nods.

 

“It’s late,” she says, after a moment, “We should sleep.”

 

John and Eliza both chime in with “Yeah”s.

 

“Where?” asks Mulligan, still visibly shaken, “What if whatever the hell that thing was comes back?”

 

A good and fair point.

 

“Pretty sure the noise would wake you up,” says Peggy, “Ang is right. We need rest.”

“We need to have groups, though, in case one of you is a light sleeper— we need to be cautious, okay? Strength in numbers,” says Eliza.

 

Aaron watches everyone else to determine who to pair up with. The siblings, like they always seem to, stick together. As do the brothers, who seem to have something closer to a parent-child bond than mere sibling love. Alexander whispers something to John, who joins them in their sleeping spot— there are laughs, Philip joins into the conversation. Which only left one person for Aaron to pair with— Mulligan comes up to him, gestures to the ground, understanding that they are both the odd ones out, and Aaron nods, quietly.

 

He falls asleep to Mulligan’s snores and the waves crashing.

 

 

 

—

 

_September 2, 2015, Earlier_

 

Aaron hates weddings in general, but seeing his sister marrying their childhood tutor, goddamn Tapping Reeve, of all people, and needing to pay three thousand dollars for airplane tickets inspires genuine anger towards them. And Aaron’s not usually an angry man, he doesn’t think.

 

Sally had sent him a drunk text, saying that she was mad at him for refusing to toast, mad at him for not even trying to have a good time— which he did, he did, he even danced. He always tries to have a good time, he’s just naturally a— well, his friend Robert said “buzzkill.”

 

This whole week has been exhausting. Aaron would have loved to get some rest on this plane, and he does get some— but then, the man next to him begins getting very involved with the episode of “Project Runway” that he’s watching. While the hollering is rude, Aaron can’t help but watch over his neighbor’s shoulders— it’s addictive.

 

“I’m gonna try out for next season, I think,” says the man watching to him, a few episodes in.

“Really?” says Aaron.

“Yeah,” he responds, “Gotta promo my work, man.”

“Hm,” says Aaron.

 

He doesn’t speak to the man again for awhile, because he really doesn’t see why he would. He occasionally nods at the show.

 

Then, just as they’re about to find out who gets cut, turbulence hits. The man swears even louder than he speaks, and Aaron braces himself.

 

He can’t close his eyes, even as the plane splits, even as they descend, even as the saltwater fills them. He grabs his neighbor, unconscious, broken tablet still in hand, and swims as fast as he can.

 

 

 

—

 

_September 3, 2015_

 

Morning comes much quicker than Aaron would have thought, and it takes him a good five minutes to remember what had happened the night before. The fire is still roaring— the boy scout in Aaron remembers that fires maybe were not supposed to be left up overnight, but he’s probably remembering it wrong— and Mulligan is still passed out next to him.

 

Alexander, however, is up, and he is pacing. He looks focused, intense. Aaron swears he knows Hamilton from somewhere, but can’t place it.

 

“Hey,” Aaron says, trying not to wake anyone.

“Aaron, right?”

“Yeah,” Alexander looks exhausted, like he didn’t sleep at all. Though, Aaron realizes he probably looks like shit himself.

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“You as well.”

 

Aaron is quiet, while Alexander starts talking about how much he hates planes, how he’s worried about the injury his brother sustained, and the man speaks in paragraphs, non-stop. Run-on sentences and a sort of rhythm to his words. Aaron zones out, for a little bit, but Alexander brings him back with a “Did you know anyone on the flight?”

 

“No,” he says, “I was going back home alone.”

“Oh,” says Alexander.

 

There's silence, and then they look at each other, quite suddenly, as it seems to occur to both of them, at this point, that Eliza is also awake, and watching them.

 

 

 

—

 

_September 2, 2015_

 

Eliza is asleep, right before it happens, dreaming.

 

She’s thinking about little Angie, how she’s doing. She hopes she’s having a good time, with her grandparents. She feels bad for leaving, but Angelica and Peggy had insisted, and Eliza knows the value of a break. She’s thinking about her first ever class, and wondering if they’ll like her. She’s also thinking about dogs, for some reason. She’s more of a cat person.

 

Peggy’s squeal wakes her up, when they hit turbulence. Angelica, window seat, bites her lip.

 

Eliza’s still opening her eyes when the plane splits, and she’s wide awake by the time the plane hits the ocean.

 

Angelica is blacked out, on the ground, and Eliza’s never seen her sister so weak before. She’s the strong one, she always has been. She knows she should go and find Peggy, they must be so scared, she should make sure people aren’t dying in the wreckage, that she should try and figure out where she is, but all she can do is stand over her sister’s prone body and cry.

 

 

 

— 

 

_September 3, 2015_

 

“Okay, so there’s two of you! Great. I was thinking, we should try and find a, what are they called, transceiver? There’s probably one in the cockpit, which I think landed in the jungle, John said he saw it go that way when I asked him about this last night, he thinks it’s a good idea,” Alexander says, not even taking a break to breathe, for a second. Eliza doesn’t know what to think of him. Immediately, she’s charmed by him, but she senses a reckless energy in him, something that will get others hurt.

“Wait til the others are awake,” says Aaron, quietly.

“Okay, but, thoughts? Eliza, feel free to-“

“I’m not sure it’ll be intact,” she says, simply.

“Okay, yes, but what if it is? Wasted chance to get us saved.”

“Who would go?” asks Aaron.

“I don’t know— I gotta take care of Philip, I don’t want him getting hurt, so not me, but I wish I could go, God, maybe John? One of you?”

“No,” they seem to chorus.

 

Alex proposes this idea to everyone, when they wake up, including Philip. Angelica is for it, to Eliza’s chagrin— it’s too risky. John is one hundred percent for it, and Mulligan is neutral. “I can babysit, if you want, though,” he adds, to which Philip responds “I don’t need a babysitter, Mr. Mulligan, I’m eleven,” and Alexander gives him a Look, “but I’ll hang with you I guess.” Peggy says no like it’s the stupidest thing they’ve ever heard.

 

The transceiver group ends up being composed of Angelica, Alex, John, and Aaron, somehow (something about “needing some form of reason”), and they set off without warning any other groups of survivors.

 

Two hours later, it’s begun to rain, and a man who Eliza recognizes from the airport, who offered her gum, walks up to them. He has a sort of powerful air to him,

 

“Some of us, uh, we thought we’d explore the island.”

“We should— we should wait,” says Mulligan, Philip on his back, “A few of us went off to find the cockpit— they should be back, soon. I hope.”

“They went into the jungle?”

“Yeah,” says Peggy, “It was Alex’s idea, not any of ours.”

“Well,” says Philip, “Alex and John’s idea, I think?”

“Who are Alex and John?”

“Two of the people who went looking,” says Eliza, smiling, and Peggy shoots the man a very rude “duh” look.

“I see. I’m George.”

“Pleasure,” says Eliza, “I’m Eliza, the rude one over here's name is Peggy, they’re my sibling. These two, I just met.”

“Philip!” says the kid, beaming, “And this is Mr. Mulligan, he’s taking care of me cuz Alex is in the jungle.”

“Wait,” says Mulligan, squinting, “You’re George fucking Washington. Phil, you didn’t hear that.”

 

George nods, looking embarrassed.

 

“Like the philanthropist?” asks Peggy.

 

The name and job combination rings a bell in Eliza’s head— he was ex-Army, he had done work some education program that Angelica had shoved in her face, once.

 

“I feel like I’m with a celebrity,” says Mulligan, “Damn!”

 

Just then, a graver looking image walks out of the jungle— Alex and Angelica, supporting a limping John on either side, and Aaron in front of them, holding something tightly. They’re all drenched, there’s mud and something that is probably blood on their faces.

 

“These are the cockpit people, then.”

 

Eliza nods, but runs up to Angelica immediately afterwards. Philip had already hopped off Mulligan’s back to get Alex, she might as well follow suit. Aaron shows off the transceiver, in all of its glory.

 

“No signal,” he adds, frowning.

“We can see if we can get one when we hike— if any of y’all want to join, the group is meeting over there.”

 

Eliza doesn’t know why she volunteers, but she likes the look Angelica gives her— something like pride. Burr, filled with some new kind of energy, tags along too.

 

(She can see, in the corner of her eye, Alexander explaining to John exactly why John should not volunteer, considering the state he is in, and good lord, what even happened to him? Alex then proceeds to volunteer himself.)

 

They set off— there’s a brief introduction to everyone else in the group beforehand— George’s wife, Martha, who smiles at Alex, an actual U.S. senator (Madision, I-VA), some girl, Maria, who looks the slightest bit like Peggy, and an Australian man whose name she doesn’t catch.

 

They don’t walk long before something strange happens, of course, and it’s revealed that Maria has a gun on her.

 

This is somehow more shocking to Eliza than the polar bear that she shot with it.

 

“Literally what the fuck,” says Alexander, voice cracking, and everyone else is speechless, for a moment.

“Jesus Christ,” says Martha, eventually, “How did that thing get here?”

“Zoo?” suggests Madison, quietly.

“No, that would require human inhabitants, senator,” says Alex, “Who would have noticed a goddamned plane crash.”

“More importantly,” says Eliza, “how did that thing get here?”

Maria shrugs, “Found it in the fuselage?” Her voice is hoarse, like she was crying earlier-- but it might just be from shock. Most of them are shocked.

 

Burr is just gaping, he has been this whole time.

 

“That’s not really something you hide, I don’t think, Maria?” Eliza adds, but Washington puts his hand up and everyone falls silent.

“Look,” he says, and points at a hill.

 

Up top, it’s greener than Eliza’s seen anything in a long while. It’s beautiful. She takes it in for a moment, and then focuses on the transceiver. Aaron fiddles with it for a second, and raises it in the air.

 

Static.

 

Then a message.

 

"Il est dehors. Il est dehors et Adrienne a pris les clés. Veuillez nous aider. Ils sont morts. Ils sont tous morts. Aidez-nous. Ils sont morts.”

 

More static.

 

“…aller jusqu'au Rocher Noir.”

 

And it cuts out for another moment.

 

“Je l'ai trouvé un homme, il dit qu'il va me aider…”

 

Static.

 

Two minutes pass before a beep. The three messages repeat themselves.

 

Alexander begins translating efficiently— “I’m from St. Croix, assholes,”— several people are dead, someone named Adrienne took the keys, something killed everyone. The person who recorded this wanted to go to a black rock.

 

“Is this a joke?” asks Maria, still clutching the gun that someone apparently had on the plane, isn’t that illegal, Eliza is fuming about this still.

“Maybe this person’s still here,” suggests Madison, voice still low, “We can find them.”

“What use would that be?” asks Alexander, “Our signal’s blocked.”

“And,” adds Aaron, looking strangely regretful the moment he says each syllable, “They won’t have found their way off here either.”

“What killed whoever “all of them” were?” asks Martha.

 

Eliza decides there’s one question that needs priority, however, and expresses it as calmly as she can.

 

“Guys? Where are we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry folks! still having fun over here though. hope you liked it and are willing to keep reading!


	3. tabula rasa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a filler chapter of sorts, in which john and alex engage in some male bonding, some questions are asked about horoscopes, a boar is found, and an island romance begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look. look. i need to get some romance in before the plot starts happening, so i put not one, but two (2!) into this chapter. but things will go slowly. because i'm boring.
> 
> so, um, warning for implications of homophobia and pregnancy, and also two mentions of animal death here (sorry for not warning about that last chapter! Aa!). 
> 
> also: i've decided to do two centric characters per chapter! and, considering we're past the pilot, multiple flashback scenes!
> 
> enjoy.

_September 3, 2015_

 

It’s still light outside when Washington’s group arrives, which John is relieved about. Having three of the exactly seven people he knew here missing was not exactly the worst thing in the world, but it wasn’t great either, and he doesn’t think he would have slept if he were kept up waiting. He’d been distracting himself by chatting with Philip, who is honestly, a delightful kid. With a delightful brother. Who happens to be running towards them, like he’s about to burst with something. Eliza and Aaron jog behind him, a little less emotive, but still looking stressed.

 

“Oh my God,” says Alexander, “Philip, you good?”

“Yeah, yeah, you?”

“I’m good, just, weird things happening. We saw a polar bear, out there, which is pretty cool— messed up, though, you can ask Eliza about it if you want, she’ll probably be better at it than me!”

“Wait, a polar bear? You gotta tell me— you’re the best at cool stories.”

“Eliza tells ‘em better. I swear. She was closer to it anyways.”

 

Philip pouts, and then leaves to talk to Eliza after a pleading look from his brother. From experience, John was unaware that the older sibling was allowed to use puppy-dog eyes.

 

_—_

 

_July 8, 2012_

 

Martha Manning, all short brown hair and big eyes, smiles at him across the table, and he tries not to squirm. He knows she’s just being nice, and that she’s a family friend, and she’s rich, and his father wants him to marry into a good family. It doesn’t matter what he wants, he needs to help the family.

 

Conversation starts out boring, about the weather, about their families. She’s funny, in a sort of sarcastic way, and damn smart. It’s a pity, John thinks, if he weren’t the way he is, he might actually be able to love her.

 

On their way out of this gala, so stuffy and with no good food and no good music and no good outcome for John, she grabs his hand, and she whispers, “I’m so glad I met you.” He laughs in response, hopes this won’t last, and counts to ten in his head.

 

 

_—_

 

_September 3, 2015_

 

Alex stares at John intensely, dark and intelligent eyes scanning him. Alex eventually gets out a “You alright?” to which John nods.

“Just a bad leg, man. I can hardly feel the pain anymore.”

Alex purses his lips, and says “Are you sure? Because you don’t need to act like you’re alright!”

“Serious, Alex, I’m good.”

“Okay,” Alex rolls his eyes, “Anyways. James Madison is here.”

“What?” John shouldn’t be sent spiraling at the mere mention of a senator who his father has barely agreed with, but he is anyways, “Oh God, oh shit.”

Alex tilts his head, “What, you hate Madison too?”

“No, no, I think that some of his more… progressive policies are— alright actually, even if he’s inconsistent as all hell— It’s just— my dad’s a senator, Madison’ll know me, and, and—”

“Wait, really? Which one?”

“You will legitimately destroy me.”

“Try me.”

“Laurens.”

 

Alex is rendered speechless.

 

“No, no, impossible, you are too good for—” he says, “Wait— are you the one kid with the so-called scanda—“

 

John nods. He’s had a few people recognize him on the street for this, before, he hates being noticed for it, rather than his, you know, actual activism work or his academic career or something that actually matters to him.

 

(Or that, y'know, his father used him, beforehand, as proof that he's not racist, see, he has a Latino son. That he sent off to boarding school when he became "inconvenient," and later near-exiled. But whatever.)

 

“That’s personal, though, don’t— press about it, alright? I was-- It's not something I really want to talk about.”

“Oh of course, shit. Damn.”

“Yeah.”

 

Alex awkwardly reaches for John’s hand, a peace offering or a source of comfort or something like that, and John is glad for it. The man’s hands are surprisingly soft, and a little cold to the touch, but John feels warmer for it, somehow.

 

 

 

_—_

 

_January 13, 2013_

 

Martha Manning smiles at him when they buy the rings. After the pregnancy scare, they had decided it was for the better, their families were pressuring them anyways. The two of them pretend to not see the dating apps on each others’ phones, pretend not to notice how dissatisfied they are with each other.

 

He can’t ignore, however, the women who show up at their apartment one day, who leave in the morning, sometimes in Martha’s clothes. She can’t ignore the men who do the same with John. They’re not really out to each other, but they understand. Nobody else needs to know.

 

“I’m so glad we’re doing this,” she says, and he knows it’s a lie, so he responds “Me too.”

 

 

 

_—_

 

_September 3, 2015_

 

Alexander, who is still holding John’s hand five minutes later, is talking about a French message and a gun and he looks like he’s about to scream. John doesn’t even bother asking why Alex is saying all of this to him, rather than say, Angelica or Mulligan, because he’s actually quite enjoying this. Alexander zones out for a moment, looking towards the Schuylers— Angelica had said that was her last name, so he assumed that was all of theirs. It probably is, John can’t see Angelica taking any partner’s name, from the little knowledge he has.

 

Philip is listening intently to Eliza’s recounting of the events, and Peggy and Angelica are both doting on the kid. A woman John doesn’t know has joined their group as well— Eliza keeps shooting her glares.

 

“You and he are close,” says John, and Alex goes back to reality.

“Yeah,” he says, “We gotta stick together.”

“You got family other than him?”

He wags his finger, “Personal. If you insist—“

“Which I don’t, if you don’t wanna share, you don’t need to.”

“Thanks, John. Okay, so, I’ll ask you something, now. What’s your passion?”

“My passion? Not really a topic for small talk. ”

“Neither of us are great at small talk.”

 

He ignores the almost insult, and begins talking about his activism— Alexander listens intently, eyes wide, nodding occasionally. He adds commentary— suggestions as to how to improve, or even criticisms, but John has to concede that he's smart as hell-- they click, on every level, save maybe economics, and John feels like he's never been so understood in his beliefs.

 

Alex is halfway through yelling about (even though John doesn't disagree in the slightest) equity in education, when John catches himself gazing, like a damned teenager, and he blushes, because of course he does.

 

John hates having feelings for any human ever. Especially ones he met the night previously due to a freak plane crash.

 

 

 

_—_

 

_October 2, 2013_

 

Martha Manning smiles at him when he says he can’t do this anymore. She nods too, and agrees, but then insists they discuss logistics.

 

“Are you going to say why?”

 

“I think so. I’m on scholarship for med school, he ain’t payin’ for that anyways— I got a job that pays decently, it’s good. You?”

 

“Don’t think so.”

 

“That’s good, I get that. Stay safe, alright?”

 

“You too, J.”

 

They part ways, with her moving in with her girlfriend and him staying in their apartment. It’s harder than he expected, losing Martha, she’s a constant in his life.

 

But he smiles.

 

 

_—_

 

_September 4, 2015_

 

Angelica is having a pretty rough week, to say the least. She knows that Eliza and Peggy are relying on her, so she’s powering through for their sakes, but if she doesn’t snap within the next two days, she’d be surprised.

 

She talks to Burr, sometimes, and he’s kind of a dirtbag, but at least he’s willing to discuss anything mildly interesting— Alexander and John are as well, she supposes, but they’re tied at the hip already, and she doesn’t think she could handle debating both of them at once.

 

(Alex had flirted with her, briefly, on the hike to the cockpit, something about never being satisfied, and one’s origins being unimportant. He’s cute, but not worth it. He’s too similar to her. And she doesn’t even want to bother with him— it doesn’t matter.)

 

But the bad week was made infinitely worse by a fucking boar destroying the fire pit. And attacking Peggy. She knows Eliza hates it, god, in other circumstances, she’d hate it, but Maria’s gun is a blessing. Or, was a blessing, because she used the last bullet on the boar.

 

“There are probably more,” says Washington, who has gathered everyone around the morning after the incident. He’s taken a clear role as leader, but Angelica supposes someone had to, “We should find more of them. Airline food won’t last us much longer.”

 

She realizes she needs to get out, to do something.

 

 

 

_—_

 

_August 1, 2012_

 

Eliza shows up at her door one day, mascara smudged, eyes red.

 

“Liza?”

“Ang, it’s— it’s—“

 

She doesn’t need Eliza to finish the sentence. They’d discussed this.

 

“You told him?”

“He changed his number.”

“Dickbag. I’ll find him and kick his ass for ever leaving you.”

“Don’t,” says Eliza, “He and I weren’t going to stay together anyway.”

“He’s a piece of shit.”

“I know.”

“You’ve got me. I love you so much.”

“Dad’ll kill me—“

“Dad’ll still love you. Peg will still love you. Phil and Kit will still love you. It’s gonna be alright, babe.”

 

 

_—_

 

_September 4, 2015_

 

She volunteers to go on the hunt. Peggy, always cautious, shoots her a Look, eyebrows furrowed. Angelica smiles back at them.

 

Maria tags along, so does Mulligan, an older guy named Tom, and some guy called Benedict (“call me Ben.”)Washington, of course, leads.

 

If this was a vacation spot, Angelica would probably adore it— warm beaches, lush forests, decent weather, pretty quiet, with the exception of whatever the hell is in the jungle, and she’s here with Eliza and Peggy. But it’s not a vacation spot, and there are no tents or hotel rooms or half-decent food, and eight people have died of their injuries in the past five days.

 

She’s taken out of her thoughts by a tap on the shoulder from Maria, whose eyes are puffy and whose posture is perfect, but somehow tired.

 

“Sorry?” she says.

“Weird question,” Maria says, no, croons, “But are you a Pisces?”

Angelica stops for a second, “Yes, actually.”

“Thought so!” and was that a wink? “You’re so… intelligent, selfless.”

“And you’ve gathered that from, what, one conversation?”

“Yep,” with a popped p, “What? As if you don’t have an impression of me.”

 

Which was fair— Angelica prided herself on reading people quickly. 

 

“I do,” she says, filtering through her thoughts.

“And what’s that?” That was a wink, there.

“Hm,” says Angelica, trying to, and then, “You feel… free here. Like you’ve escaped something. But you're. Not sure whether or not you want to be away from it.”

“Damn,” says Maria, “Insightful. You should be a psychologist.”

“That sarcasm?”

“Not sure.” Another wink.

 

Washington interrupts their conversation with a “There,” not yelled. Benedict Call Me Ben pulls a pocket knife, which, while less shocking than a gun, isn’t exactly something that, in Angelica’s memory, is a TSA-approved item. And call me Ben certainly knows how to use it, because he catches the damn boar.

 

The hike back is boring, and an hour later, the group arrives back at camp, Washington holding the boar and that Tom guy smirking. Their fellow survivors cheer, and Peggy and Eliza run up to Angelica, to badger her with “are you okay?”s and “what was it like?”s. She answers with a simple “fine,” and “boring, actually.

 

Mulligan seems distracted by something— he claims he dropped his water bottle in the jungle, that he’ll be back in thirty minutes, don’t go looking for him. He ends up coming back two hours later, no mini water bottle in hand. He gives no answers as to where he was, simply says “got distracted.”

 

Angelica takes his reappearance as a go-ahead to go about her own business— Eliza is chatting with Mulligan and Alexander, Peggy is teasing that poor kid Philip. They won’t see her do something without them, they won’t even notice she’s gone.

 

The tarp she goes to is dark blue, and has not the rationed one airline pillow, but three inside of it. Maria (Lewis, she said her name was,) lounges on top of them, reading a SkyMall and tapping her fingernails, which have chipping red paint on them, on the sand.

 

“‘Sup?” asks the girl.

“Nothing, just wanted to say hi.”

“Hi,” says Maria, dismissively, not here for the conversation as it is going.

“Okay, well, I’m gonna head back to the fire pit—“

“You can stay,” she says, no, coos, and she draws out the last word, for some reason, almost melodic in tone.

“…Kay?”

“Hey,” Maria says, out of nowhere, and leans in.

 

(Angelica thinks about Eliza, for a second, here, that Eliza doesn’t trust Maria. Peggy isn’t a huge fan of the woman either, but Angelica— she puts herself first, for once, despite the tan line on Maria's ring finger, despite the voice in her head saying this is a bad idea.)

 

She doesn’t say no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notes!  
> [1] wow guess my favorite lost f/f ship! that conversation is Too Gay to not transplant into this fic, frankly.  
> [2] benedict is exactly who you think it is and yep, @ readers who have watched lost, i am making things go a little faster than they originally went.  
> [3] sorry for a boring chapter! things will get more exciting next time, when we catch up with mr. hercules mulligan (and peggy!)
> 
> feel free to yell at me on tumblr (@oceanicairline) or on twitter (@farmerefuted)


	4. white rabbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the author wants to get to certain plot points quickly, hercules mulligan makes a discovery, and peggy really, really wants to get home by sundown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:) lost goes too slowly for me, and like, these are different characters anyways, so here are some plots from mid-season one to early season two.
> 
> warnings for injury, one entire sentence of a language the author does not speak (that being, french,) and gun usage.

_ September 5, 2015 _

It had caught his eye— a glimmer of metal, in the distance— but he can’t wander off to look for it without telling anyone. He realizes that he’s stopped, thinking about it, when Benedict glances at him for a moment. He ignores the strangeness, the suspicion of the look, and he signals that it’s nothing.

He comes up with an excuse, when he gets back, and he lies about having a water bottle. (There are still a few left, and he might as well have been carrying one, no one would have noticed.) If it, whatever it is, is important, he’ll tell everyone else, but he doesn’t want to risk anyone else for his damned “thirst for adventure.”

This is all because he can’t restrain himself. Hercules needs to see what this is, he’s always been a curious man. It’s only about a half a mile away, he played football as a kid, he can run. He almost trips over it when he gets to it— he expected it to be a piece of the plane or something.

It’s a door, almost— it could be a part of the plane, if the plane had crashed a decade ago. It’s thick, silver. Small but almost intimidating. There’s a small, fogged-up window in the center, and six numbers that Hercules swears he recognizes from somewhere plastered on top of it. He doesn’t know what possesses him to knock, but he does it anyway, and he doesn’t stop.

And when that leads to nothing, he still shows up again the next morning.

 

—

 _August 30, 2011_  

The buzz of the doorbell wakes him up. There are two skinny shadows who he doesn’t recognize from anywhere— a kid and a teenager. One of them, the older one, with long hair tied up, in a kind-of accented voice, begins to speak.

“Hello, sir, I’m incredible sorry to bother you— Are you Hercules Mulligan?”  
“Yeah?”  
“I was told you had a place to stay,” says the man, no, the boy at his door,, “Got kicked out of student housing— at Columbia— for, uh, not telling them I brought a kid with me. My friend, uh, Rob Troup, said you got an extra room,” the man looks disheveled, exhausted. He’s holding a ratty backpack, has circles under his eyes that look like bruises  
“I do,” says Hercules, and he looks at the tiny figure behind the kid, shivering from cold, but he turns to the other, “What’s your name, man?”  
“Alexander Hamilton. This is Philip, my brother, he’s, uh, six years old. He doesn’t talk much. I’m eighteen.”

Hercules has been told he trusts too easily, but he’s an observant man. He can tell this kid is legit, he’ll call Rob Troup (a good kid, buys a lot of hats, a bit of a troublemaker, but endearingly so,) in the morning to verify.

“There’s a spare room, I’ll show y’all— I’ll give house-slash-shop rules in the morning. And I’ll make eggs. You do eggs?”

Alexander Hamilton nods, heartily.

 

— 

 _September 5, 2015_  

Peggy doesn’t know why they agreed to go along on a “fun hike into the jungle” with Eliza, the Hamilton brothers (Philip latched onto Alex’s back, probably at the latter’s insistence more than the former’s), Aaron, and John. They don’t know where Angelica or Mulligan are, even, and it’s not a great day. Or week. Or even month, thinking about it.

But they did agree to come along, so there they are, walking alongside Burr, who looks just as confused about his presence there as Peggy is about theirs.

“All I’m sayin’,” says John, “Is that maybe we should have told Washington,” and Peggy can almost hear Alex’s eyes rolling.  
“He won’t mind, he trusts us, I think. He wants me to help him come up with something to address the people with, like he’s president of the island or something.”  
“You as a speechwriter? When did he even say that?” John says, a firm “pft” at the end, “Fucked up that everyone in our little clique is gone, though.”  
“Angelica’s still at camp, John,” says Eliza, “And watch your mouth.”  
“I know curse words,” says Philip, “I read a lot, and Alex curses all the time when he thinks I’m not listening.”

Peggy laughs a little bit.

“Wait,” they say, thinking for a second, “Where’s Angelica, then?”  
“I saw her going to Maria’s tent,” says Burr, "I don't think she left."  
“Wait, Maria?” says Eliza, “I thought she was with that girl, uh, what’s her name, Kit?”  
“Nope, it was definitely Maria,” says Burr.  
“Can we not discuss Angelica’s romantic endeavors near this one?”

The group walks on, even further. Peggy hears a bird saying something that sounds a little bit like their name. They shiver, but knows that birds talking to them is unreasonable, it’s unreasonable. They then decide to stay positive about where this hike will go, no matter how fucked up this place is. 

 

—

_July 8, 2012_  

They hate fundraiser galas— always so stuffy, and they have to wear a dress and it’s really just inconvenient. See, Angelica is off with her girlfriend, who’s escaped a table with some senator’s son, and Eliza is busy with James or Jordan or whatever the hell his name is, and Phil shipped the event because he's on a field trip, and Kit is having fun with the other little kids.

They’re fifteen, and they feel incredibly out of place. They pace their breaths, they attempt small talk with strangers— some French scientist asks them for their pronouns, even, which is unheard of. Still, they’re bored and feel almost claustrophobic in the banquet hall.

Peggy heads outside. It’s cold, but the air feels nice on their bare arms— they can hear their mother talking about sweaters and “you’ll catching your death, Margarita.”

A woman— years older than her— approaches, smiling gently, twiddling her fingers.

“You doing alright?”  
“Yeah?”  
“Just noticed you look lonely,” says the woman, not unkindly, “You alright?”  
“Eh, I’m good.”  
“Alright, if you insist. I’ll go back in. I was just worried.”  
“Kay,” says Peggy, “Wait, who the— who even are you?”  
“Name’s Theodosia.”

Theodosia, elegant in her dark blue gown, strolls back into the hall, and Peggy spots a wedding ring on the concrete. She doesn't bring it back.

 

—

  _September 5, 2015_

Mulligan is trying to place where he’s seen these numbers before— four eight fifteen (eight fifteen— that was their flight number, wasn’t it?) sixteen twenty-three forty-two. Maybe it’s someone’s phone number? An address? He knocks again, and swears he hears a rock hit the other side of the window.

He looks around, quickly, perhaps for another entrance, and he spots, several yards away, an incline covered in vines. He walks towards it, tiptoeing despite the fact that there is no one there to disturb. He wipes the sweat that has accumulated on his brow— it’s hot, and he had ran over here as soon as he woke up.

The incline isn’t a rock, like he would have expected, but instead a door, which he would have hoped. There’s no clear way to open it, so after pushing for five minutes— he could use his fake water bottle, about now— he begins knocking again. He realizes how strange this would look about now, but he’s so drawn to the door, to what’s inside.

It creaks open, after four more minutes of knocking, and then it seems to burst open— gibberish is being shouted at him by someone in a hazmat suit, there’s a rifle pointed at Hercules’ chest, and he sticks his hands up, calmly as he can. And he can’t really do this calmly, so he falls to the ground, and hits his head on the rocks and dirt below him. As he opens his eyes, he sees fluorescent lights, and feels concrete scraping his back. He keeps quiet, he tries to get a closer look at his captor, but to no avail.

 

—

  _September 3, 2011_

“Morning, sir,” says Alex Hamilton, who won’t stop calling him “sir.” It makes him feel old, and he’s, what, fifteen years older than this kid?  
“Again, just Hercules or Mulligan or Herc, even.”  
“Alright, Herc, then. Philip is still asleep, I’ll wake him up if you need him—“  
“Let the kid sleep, man, y’all look like you haven’t had it in years. You got class today?”  
“Yeah, not till ten, though.”  
“Alright, you can work the register til nine-thirty, then, yeah?”  
“Of course, sir. You got more staff?”  
“No sirs. And my sister Sarah, plus her husband, but today’s her day off, and he won’t get in until after you leave. We’re a family business, real small, but we get shit done.”  
“Of course, Herc? And cool. Can you— do you have a chance to read my paper for my U.S. Government class? You don’t have to, obviously, I just need an extra set of eyes.”

Alex Hamilton's a hard worker, Mulligan knows after a few weeks of this. He has a few interviews lined up for part time jobs— he’s said he doesn’t want to “burden” Hercules by sticking around, or something. But he likes having the two of them around, Alex and Philip, they’re good kids. And Alex, he’s a helluva writer. He’ll go places.

(He’s not surprised when he and Philip are gone with no warning three months later, with a four page note on the counter with thank yous and one hundred dollars in cash on top of it.)

 

— 

  _September 5, 2015_

Peggy doesn’t know how or when they got lost, but they did, and that is clearly a bad sign. They probably should have noticed when they couldn’t hear the rest of the group. Those people— they never stop talking. Angelica was expressing her (very valid, actually,) worry about hair maintenance while stranded, last Peggy could hear, but they tuned out halfway through. 

They wonder if anyone has noticed they’re gone.

It’s afternoon, they can find their way back to camp. Home by sundown, their father had always said. Home by sundown. (Angelica always said that was stupid. She and Eliza, always Eliza, would sneak out after dark. But Eliza claimed peer pressure. Peggy joined them a few times, but they were usually too young to do things with the other two. It didn’t matter.)

They turn around, try to retrace their steps, and swear they see something in the corner of their eye. Someone. But they ignore it, because that’s their usual coping tactic for things that they classify in their head as “Weird Shit That Makes No Sense.”

Or at least, they try to ignore it, because they are suddenly very aware of their heartbeat and of their breaths. They feels something on their shoulders, and Peggy is possessed by some sort of dizzy spell. They keel over, and their glasses fall off. They don’t try to pick them up.

Peggy screams when they feel it grasp their shoulders, but they can’t place what “it” is before they pass out. There’s a bright light, and then none at all. 

 

— 

  _July 8, 2012_

The gala ends boringly, and nothing exciting happens whatsoever, other than Angelica being mildly upset about a breakup— her girlfriend went off with the kid she was seated with, and broke up with her over text.

But Peggy sees the name Theodosia— not really a common name, so they assume it’s the same person— in the papers four months later, reported missing. Apparently she was a genius doctor on the verge of a groundbreaking discovery or something.

They forget about her, mostly.

 

—

  _September 5, 2015_

“Parlez-vous français?"  
“Uh, non.”  
“English?”  
“Yeah. Who the fuck are you?”  
“Same could be asked of you.”  
“Hercules, I’m from New York.”  
“Are you my replacement?”  
“I don’t thinks so? My plane crashed here. Where are we?”

He pulls himself up. His head hurts.

“Hercules?” says his captor, very French, “Pft, and I am Lancelot.”  
“Nah, man, it’s really Hercules.”

He doesn’t ask any more questions. His captor, however, does.

“You say your plane crashed?”  
“Yeah.”  
“How many other people are alive?”  
“I don’t know— forty-two?”

The French person— tall, bearded, hair afroed, features still a bit blurry in Mulligan’s probably concussed head— seems to cringe at the number.

The two of them stare at each other.

“I am Lafayette.”  
"Okay,” says Hercules, “I am going to leave and— and I’ll come back, I swear, I just need to tell the group that there are other people here—“

Lafayette picks up the gun again.

“Leave and die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notes, for the unaware!
> 
> [1] robert troup, who i namedropped in this chapter, was hamilton's roommate at king's! and also, i believe, i'll check up on this later, a good friend of aaron burr.  
> [2] lost fans: to match the ethan/goodwin proxy i slipped into last chapter, i have now officially introduced our juliet proxy! she'll come back later. also, gotta keep up the lost tradition of intersecting flashbacks!  
> [3] jesus christ i'm sorry.
> 
> questions? comments? just want to say hi? comment, or reach me on tumblr (@oceanicairline) or twitter (@farmerefuted)!


	5. solitary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which our heroes(?) engage in a quest to find a missing schuyler, a certain frenchman is prepared to fight, and burr and hamilton collaborate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so. mythology chapter, kinda, introducing two entire big lost concepts that i want to sort of explore with these characters early on.
> 
> warnings for mentions of death, murder, kidnapping, guns, and mental health issues, if that stuff bothers you.
> 
> enjoy!

_ September 5, 2015 _

“Peggy’s gone,” says a breathless Elizabeth Schuyler, across the beach, to Angelica only, but George hears anyways. He can’t tell whether or not she’s crying, but he can infer, and after a moment she says “Mulligan too.”

George figures it can’t help to stroll down and ask what’s going on— he had guessed that the little faction of twenty-somethings (and one child) had gone on a hike, which was alright, as long as they stayed safe— he really did worry about those kids— but it seemed they hadn’t. Eliza is, as he had assumed, crying and Angelica is holding her tightly, as if she might go missing as well. He thinks of Martha’s son and daughter, hopes they’re not too worried about he and their mother. Hamilton (the elder) accosts him before he gets close to the girls.

“Sir,” he says, and breathes in, like he’s about to say about a million words a second, “We were all on a hike— well, except Herc, he went off to do his own thing this morning, and Angelica, who might have— might have!— been with Maria, and we were all talking and then, an hour in, we noticed that Peggy— Peggy Schuyler, you know them— was gone, like a ghost, like they’d never even been there. We’d been talking to them two minutes before— they hadn’t said much, but they were most definitely there, because they told me and John to, uh, to get a room.”

“I’m aware they’re gone, yes.”  
“Sir, see, we need people to go out looking for them— plus, Burr and I were talking, and we decided we should run a census of sorts, just to take people into account in case this happens again.”  
“Burr?” the name rings a bell in George’s head, but he can’t place it.  
“Aaron? Buzzed hair, my height, kind of an ass?”  
“Ah,” says George, remembering the kid’s face, “You two do that. I’ll assemble a group.” 

 

\--

_July 23, 2015_  

These kinds of times, where he’s alone with his thoughts, are relaxing, but Martha says they’re bad for him. He gets too lost in his thoughts, she says. Which is true. And his therapist, Dolley, says he needs to work on articulating these thoughts, when he has them. “You need to journal, George,” she says, “It’ll help.” He can’t speak or write well enough, and he doesn’t have the time to journal, what with the foundation and all.

“I made soup, Martha says, prodding him out of the corner, because he’s balling his fists thinking about Dolley and he hasn’t blinked in at least forty-five seconds.  
“Thank you,” he responds, but he doesn’t follow her.  
“Dear,” she says, a minute later, “Come on.”

But he’s thinking about them and will he even— he can never go back, after last time, he never will. Too many mistakes. Too much shame. He doesn’t think he’s slept a full night in the ten years since.

Martha holds his shoulder, says softly that she loves him.

He follows her.

 

—

_September 5, 2015_

“Name, age, where you’re from, and profession,” says Burr, “You go first.”  
“Okay, so, Alexander Hamilton, twenty-three, New York, law student slash waiter slash freelance writer.”  
“Aaron Burr, twenty-two, Jersey, lawyer.”  
“You are not younger than me. There is no possible way that you were born even a year before me. You a child prodigy or something?”  
“Alright, you go on believing that. And none of your business.”

Maria is the first person they see— “Maria Lewis Reynolds, twenty-three, L.A., bartender. The hell’s this about?” Then, they hit George’s group, composed of “Elizabeth Schuyler, twenty-two, L.A., teacher’s aide,” “George Washington, do you really need to know— okay, forty-seven, Alexandria, I run a nonprofit,” “Angelica Schuyler, twenty-five, L.A., journalist,” and “James Madison, thirty-eight, Virginia-slash-The-District, senator,” and “John Laurens, twenty-four, L.A., med student plus barista.” And they add Philip— Alex just lists off his information, he’s being babysat by “Martha Washington, fifty, Virginia, nurse.”

“I know where Mulligan’s from and what he does, but not how old he is,” says Alex, “I used to live with him, see, back when I first, uh, immigrated to the States and needed a place, he’s a tailor, he runs a shop— and he’s from Ireland but he moved to New York when he was a kid.”  
“Odd that he keeps going missing, though.”  
“I guess? You seen that Benedict guy? Feathery hair, big eyes—“  
“I have not, in fact.”  
“Well, Burr, sir, I feel it’s necessary for us to find him as well, as having not one, not two, but three entire people missing is incredibly concerning, because we established a buddy system, didn’t we?”  
“Your friend Hercules certainly didn’t follow that.”  
“Maybe they’re together?”

 

— 

 

The man, Hercules, looks horrified. Lafayette almost feels bad for keeping the gun (which he doesn’t even think is loaded,) to the man’s chest, but Lafayette has to keep safe. 

“Man, please,” he says, “I’m not gonna hurt you, I just wanna go back to my group.”

Lafayette breathes, slow. Hercules might be lying, he might be one of them, them who killed all of them and took another, but he seems legitimate, he seems scared.

The beeping starts, and Lafayette strolls over to type in what he always does. Hercules follows him. The clock resets. It’s been a week and a half since everything happened, and he’s still not sure what had happened.

“You live down here?”  
“Yes. When did your plane crash?”  
“Ten days ago.”  
“Mon dieu.”  
“What happened ten days ago?”  
“Nothing of note,” he lies, probably quite obviously.  
“You got food down here?”  
“I am still alive, am I not?”  
“Are you alone? Down here, I mean.”  
“Not right now,” technically true.  
“Other than me,” says Hercules.  
“Then yes.”  
“Damn. You alright?”

Not the question Lafayette would have asked, in Hercules’ position, but he can’t help but answer.

“Quite lonely.”  
“There’s a bunch of us on the beach— you’d be welcome, I think. How’d you get here?”  
“I was a- a scientist. _Physicien_. My ship crashed, about three, four years ago. My team died, and then I got dragged here.”  
“You’re the radio broadcast guy, then?”  
“You heard my signal?”

Lafayette gets back into stance.

“We used our transceiver. We were trying to make contact with the outside world, our first day here.”  
“I can’t leave, anyways,” he says, with a sigh.  
"What do you mean?" asks Mulligan, and Lafayette stares.  
"It's... complicated."

 

—

  _June 15, 2012_

“Every one-oh-eight minutes,” says the man, Samuel, “You are to type these numbers into this computer.”  
“Sleep,” Lafayette says, unable to make full English sentences, unable to think in both languages--  
“You’ll shoot yourself with this, every nine days,” he holds up a device with a needle at the end, “It regulates your sleep schedule.”  
“Why are you helping me?”  
“You’ll get sick otherwise, and we can’t have that, no, no.”  
“Sick?”  
“What killed your… team.”  
“They were not sick.”  
“I took them our of their misery, Gilbert,” Samuel manages to mangle the pronunciation of _that_.  
“Lafayette. And it was not only you."

The room— the Hill, Samuel told him it was called, is spacey, cold. He’s grown used to the heat and the humidity that lies outside of this bunker, and he can’t stop shivering now that he is within it.

“There are... hostile groups, on this island. We don't ever see them, down here. Sleep, now, Gilbert.”

He’s shown a cot, small, with a light blanket and a single pillow. Still, it is more comfortablethan anything he’s slept on in the past month.

He sleeps for only ninety minutes.

 

—

_September 5, 2015_

George doesn’t talk on the search for Peggy, which is usual, for him, but what’s disconcerting is the silence of everyone else. Madison’s quiet is usual, but John, Angelica, and Eliza’s are not. It makes sense for the sisters, he supposes, they have lost someone dear to them. John, however, would usually try to lighten the mood, to encourage.

He swears he knows the boy from somewhere.

Angelica finds the footprints— points them out with a “that’s their size.”

“There’s an extra set,” adds Madison, “Men’s size twelve, it’s on this other person’s shoe print.”  
“Are you implying someone took Peggy?” asks John, “Because, Senator, that seems highly unlikely.”  
“There’s the tail section,” says Eliza.  
“Who are, for all intents and purposes, dead.”  
“All possibilities are valid, George,” says Angelica, sounding almost angry, “We don’t know where the rest of them plane went. If you saw a stranger in this jungle, what would you do?”  
“Interrogate,” says John. George nods.

 

—

_August 23, 2015_

“How are Martha’s kids?” Dolley asks. They’ve reached a lull in the appointment.  
“They’re alright,” he says, “Francesca is stressed about school, but she always is.”  
“Is her nervousness rubbing off on you or Martha, do you think?”  
“Eh,” he says, “There’s a tense mood in the house, but I don’t think it rubs off.”  
“You seem off, George, is something on your mind?”  
“I need a break.”

Dolley nods, writes something down.

“Want to elaborate?”  
“There’s a lot going on, lately.”  
“Such as?”  
“Work, dreams,” he exhales, “You know about those things.”  
“Yes,” she says, “Maybe you should take a vacation.”  
“Maybe,” he says.

Martha books tickets to Australia as soon as he suggests it.

 

—

_September 5, 2015_  

“Y’all realize there’s a manifest,” says Tom, sunbathing, when Aaron and Alexander get to him, “I have it in my tent.”  
“You gonna give it to us?”  
“You really need it?”  
“It’ll make this a hell of a lot less tedious,” says Alexander— “Tedious is his word, by the way, but I admit that it’s a good one.”  
“Tom, please, it’ll help all of us, in the future.”  
He groans, “It’s in my tent,”

He pulls himself up, with exaggerated difficulty, walks a few yards, and grabs it.

“Thank you,” says Aaron.  
“It ain’t fine literature, but enjoy, I guess.”

 

—

_September 5, 2015_

“So you gotta type in six numbers every two hours?”  
“Yes.”  
“Or the world ends.”  
“Yes.”  
“You realize how fucking ridiculous that sounds.”  
“If you don’t believe me, there’s a video about it. Bookshelf, behind Our Mutual Friend.”

Lafayette lays on the wall, relaxed, almost, and watches Hercules’ face, intense, as the film plays. Sky, as the man within it calls himself, talks about the Revolutionary Initiative’s origins, the Hill’s resident’s goals. It’s all very boring. Lafayette swears, though, that he recognizes the speaker from somewhere.

“Damn,” says Hercules.  
“Indeed.”  
“I’ll get others to help, man,” it can’t be a real offer, he must be lying. Lafayette has to be cautious, “If the world ends if this button doesn’t get pressed or some other shit like that, you shouldn’t do it alone.”  
“Hercules,” Lafayette says, “I cannot leave.”  
“Yes, you can! Just let me talk to people. I promise you, I’ll come back.”  
"If you don't come back..."  
"I promise, Lafayette. Swear to God."

Lafayette hasn't believed in many, lately, but something in Hercules' eyes makes him want to.

 

—

_September 3, 2015_

Samuel is dead. Lafayette tries not to blame himself.

He had been lied to, he didn’t have to be doing this, stuck in this prison— he was seeing the outside for the first time in years, despite the fact that he would have lived, were he out there. He could have gone home.

That would have made anyone angry. 

And he hadn’t mean to hit Samuel’s head.

He’s soaking wet, the ground had shaken. He was so close to the world’s end. Maybe it had already happened. Maybe now he was truly alone.

There is another shake— an aftershock, he presumes, and he breathes out.

It will be a long eternity, alone. 

 

—

_September 5, 2015_

No sign of Peggy. They follow the footprints, but they end up in a rocky area, and can’t track them any further.

There is a somber mood within George’s group. Burr and Alex, poring over a sheet of paper— their census, George assumes, look up at them. Seeing the lack of Peggy, Alex walks up to comfort Eliza and Angelica, and to whisper something to John.

“Sir, Burr and I— we found the manifesto, and, uh, someone wasn’t— someone wasn’t on the plane.”  
“Who?”

That very second, as Alex is breathing in, Hercules Mulligan runs out of the jungle.

“Yo,” he says, “You will not believe this shit.”

Angelica balls her fist.

“No, no, Angelica— it’s not—“ says Burr.  
“There are other people on this place— well, there’s at least one, his name’s Lafayette—“ says Mulligan  
“Did you take them? Did you hurt them?” Angelica adds. George tries to pay attention to every conversation at one, a series of misunderstandings.  
“There’s no one named Benedict on the manifest!” yells Alex.

The beach goes silent.

 

—

_September 6, 2015_

Somewhere, Peggy Schuyler is woken up by a woman whose face they recognize from somewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notes, but brief ones because my computer is about to die.
> 
> [1] benedict arnold. traitor to the americans, our proxy to the lost character ETHAN ROM.  
> [2] HE WASN'T ON THE PLANE :') is such a tbt i remember so little about lost season 1 tbh  
> [3] the planning doc for this is saying "you're going to fast with these plots" but my heart is saying "keep going, asshole, keep going."  
> [4] check in next time with our good friends phillip and aaron.
> 
> questions, comments, or just want to say hi? leave a comment, or reach me on tumblr @oceanicairline or twitter @farmerefuted !


	6. all the best cowboys have daddy issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which hercules mulligan reveals his love for chart-making, aaron burr represses every emotion that comes his way, phillip hamilton is precious, and the author does not know what they are doing ninety percent of the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kind of filler, kind of more quiet introduction to the Others as a group. who knows what i'm doing! me, sometimes maybe!
> 
> warnings for: death, memory issues, issues with parents/guardians/the likes, and the author's inability to hold themself back from introducing new plots. maybe this is why lost had so much going on.

_ September 6, 2015 _

Philip doesn’t get why everyone’s screaming— like, he understands that Peggy is gone, but that’s not something people scream about, that’s more of a crying and restlessly searching thing. And Hercules (Mr. Mulligan, who insists upon Not Being Called Mr. Mulligan,) is back and seems like he’s upset, and it’s all really stressful. But Philip likes this place. The weather is always nice and people like him and he doesn’t have algebra homework to worry about. Plus Eliza is helping him with his poetry, sometimes, and she’s smart and doesn’t treat him like a baby (he is in the sixth grade, for God’s sake!)

But nobody else seems happy, right now. Alex is yelling at everyone, has been for about five minutes, and Philip is only hearing every third word or so— “manifest, plane, other people, Mulligan, jungle, Benedict, goddamn, Peggy,” etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

Senator Madison, who Philip had previously seen Alex complaining about while watching C-SPAN, contributes that the manifest might have been missing a name. Mr. Burr nods, and Alex shakes his head, saying “We have proof, says Mulligan, of other people on this island! Maybe they sent a spy? Did any of you— any of you — see Benedict on the plane?”

“There’s no need to promote fear, Alexander,” says Burr.  
“Peggy is gone. That’s a solid and good reason to promote fear.”

Philip agrees with his brother here, from what he can gather of the situation— maybe they should confirm what Hercules is saying first, but otherwise, it’s a fair assumption.

So he contributes, and people squint at him like there’s something about him they don’t recognize, it makes him uncomfortable, but he ignores that feeling in the pit of his stomach and pronounces every syllable as strongly as he can— “Mr. Mulligan should show us what he found.”

 

—

_April 16, 2014_  

“I have class, Philip, but you know I would go if I didn’t—“  
“You’re two weeks ahead,” he says, “I saw you writing that paper last night when I got a snack.”  
“Baby, I already got two absences in my philosophy class. And you need to stop getting snacks at three A.M.”  
“You said it was a super easy, though? And says you.”

Alex puts his hands in his hair, like he always does when he’s tired, which is usually. “Teacher’s a massive jerk, I don’t want to fail.”

Philip flashes Alex the sweetest look he can muster.

“I’ll figure it out.”

He pouts, a little bit, at the lack of sureness, because both of Richard Price’s parents are coming to Bring Your Parent And Or Grandparent And Or Special Friend To School Day, and also he wants to show Alex the art project that he and J.Q. had done together. After considerable amount of sweet looks, Alex caves and says he’ll show up for the second half of the day, after philosophy, because his religion teacher is totally, quote, “chill.”Philip beams at his brother, truly excited.

He’s just turned nine, and he’s in the school play and his teacher keeps talking about how talented he is— he can’t wait to show off to Alex, he’ll be so proud, hopefully, definitely.

 

—

  _September 6, 2015_

Burr follows Mulligan into the Hatch, that’s what Mulligan had called it, alongside Maria, Alexander, and John. He thought it seemed smart— and no matter what Angelica might think, there was no way in hell that Mulligan was who took Peggy. The rest had listened to Angelica’s proposition— another hunt for Peggy. Strength in numbers. And a few more had stayed on the beach, including Philip Hamilton, who Alex had insisted stay for his own safety.

It’s not in his best interest to go on a trip with no destination, but he wants to be in the know, it’s an almost compulsive need of his.

“Lafayette’s a little… not used to company,” says Mulligan, as they walk down the halls. He then proceeds to yell, “Yo, it’s me! I brought some people. More’ll come later, we lost one of our own.” There’s a pause, the silence lingers, but John breathes heavily, which makes Burr want to grate his teeth. There are then footsteps, and Mulligan says, deeply, “That’s him.”

A tall man, holding a rifle, with dark circles under his eyes and big hair tied back, emerges into the hall, and examines the group.Alex waves, awkwardly, his body language stiff. Burr doesn’t do anything, but he stares over at everyone else, avoiding eye contact with Lafayette, who looks at everyone quite intensely.

They follow Mulligan and Lafayette down another corridor, and into a room.

“What the fuck?” says Maria, articulating Burr’s thoughts in a more concise way than he thinks he could have. He nods along. Examining— he feels strangely claustrophobic in here, like the concrete walls will crush him, his fillings hurt in his teeth.Alex is whispering to John about something, and John elbows him in the gut. Aaron feels crushed.

After a deep breath in, once everyone has looked around, Lafayette finally speaks, in a heavily accented voice, “Welcome to the Hill.” 

 

— 

_August 3, 1999_

Sally holds his hand in the tightest grip he can imagine at their mother and father’s funeral. It’s sunny outside and the funeral home is small and sweaty and smells distinctly of lavender. See, Aaron’s really not sure what’s going on, but he knows that everyone else is sad and so he probably should be too. The past few days are hard to remember— He remembers that he’s cried a lot and he’s not sure why. He’s usually really good at remembering things— his father always called him a child genius, said he’d be great at Princeton.

But it hits him, what happened, the car crash and visiting them at the hospital and being ushered quickly out of the room his mother was in, when his grandfather begins speaking, and he screams, which, in retrospect (there’s always retrospect, for Aaron, it’s all he has,) is embarrassing and rude and inappropriate (his grandfather is the one who says that word, that night, but it sticks with Aaron. Most things stick with Aaron, frankly.)

That night, he decides to talk less. Feel less. Show less. It’s only reasonable, he decides.

He smiles all day the next day. Sally still cries, and he understands— he’s young, but he understands. But he won’t cry. He can't cry.

 

— 

  _September 6, 2015_

Philip hates being left out. Senator Madison, who still seems like a celebrity to him, has been left to watch him— and he doesn’t need watching. He wanders around a bit, because the Senator won’t talk to him. He steals a book (he can hear Alex chastising him for this) from Mr. Tom’s tent— it’s a collection of Emily Dickinson, who is, in Philip’s opinion, okay, but not his favorite poet. It’s all very flowery and boring.

He sees a tall woman, when he’s reading the poems on a rock near the jungle, where he usually sits because it makes him feel tall— he hasn’t seen her around before, but his Science teacher once called him “a tad unobservant at times” on his report card, so that’s to be expected. 

“Hi,” he says, not completely looking up from the poems, “Who are you?”  
She almost jumps, like she didn’t notice him, “I’m, uh, Miss Prevost, I don’t think we’ve met?”  
“I’m Philip. Why are you in the jungle?”  
“I like taking walks.”  
“You could’ve gone with Ms. Angelica?”  
“She’s a little intense, though, isn’t she?” says Miss Prevost with a smile.  
“I guess.”

Miss Prevost looks around the beach, eyes wide, like she’s looking for something. She bites her lip, and avoids eye contact with Philip.

“I, uh, dropped my sunglasses a little ways into the jungle, it was very nice to meet you.”  
“Bye,” he says, and waves, and goes back to a poem about death or love or maybe both.

She runs away, and Philip thinks nothing of it. There are better things to think something of. 

 

— 

  _April 18, 2014_  

Alex shows up twenty minutes earlier than he said he would, and says he may have picked a fight with the teacher and gotten kicked out of class. He whispers it, because if the teacher heard, she would probably think lesser of Philip. Philip knows this, and he doesn’t think Alex knows he knows this.

Alex ends up charming Philip’s teacher, Miss Marie— he charms everyone. Philip admires this about his brother. It’s a good skill to have.

The day goes nicely, until it doesn’t, because Alex and Mr. Monroe, Ellie Monroe’s dad, end up bickering about politics. While Alex arguing about the debt with near strangers is a pretty normal happening for Philip, this is apparently reaching levels inappropriate for an elementary school classroom. Miss Marie, in all her little-old-lady glory, says she refuses to have this kind of nonsense going on today, on what is supposed to be a happy day for the students to show off their work to their parents-slash-guardians-slash-special-friends.

“I’ll wait outside,” Alex says, quietly again, “And we’re gonna get ice cream  And it’ll be great.”

He waves, raises his voice, and then says “Sorry, Marie. I’ll see myself out. It was my most ardent pleasure to speak with you.” (See, Alex always uses big words when he feels the need to defend himself. Philip’s not sure where that comes from.)

He didn’t get to show off his art project. Maybe he’ll have Miss Marie take a photo for him. 

 

—

   _September 6, 2015_

Alexander Hamilton is asking questions about the situation, not stopping. He’ll shut down any of this Lafayette fellow’s excuses of “not knowing how it works” and the likes of that within seconds, and John is helping. Maria laughs at everything Alexander says, and Mulligan seems to be rubbing his forehead.

“Alexander,” says Burr, when it’s getting annoying, “Talk less. Maybe we should take this at face value.”  
“The day I talk less is the day you tell me anything about yourself other than that you’re a lawyer and you’re from Jersey. Actually, how the hell did you gradua—“

Lafayette laughs, perhaps at the sudden change in subject, thus cutting Alexander off. He then says, “Aaron, is it? I do not even take this at face value. It is truly a ridiculous life I lead.”

John smiles at that, says, “Hey, at least you admit it’s weird as hell.”  
"It’s not that weird,” says Maria. Burr worries about her sometimes— she seems more nervous than she tries to let on. It makes him wonder what her life was before all this, “Y’all saw the movie, it said this was an electromagnetic station. And my necklace flew up when I walked past that wall over there, near the, uh, food stash— which, why aren’t we freaking about that?”  
“She makes a good point,” Mulligan says, “Laf, man, if we help you out down here—“  
“Which we might not, because how should we know you’re not involved with the people who took Peggy?” says John.  
“He isn’t,” says Alex, like it’s obvious. He nods at John. John seems to believe him.  
“We will,” says Mulligan, “And we’ll break you outta this hole. But we’re also gonna take the food, because airline food will not last us any more than three days, and maybe two people know how to fish.”

Lafayette looks pensive.

“Are you sure?”  
“Of course,” says Mulligan, “We gotta make a button-pressing schedule, though. I am fucking awesome at making charts, so I’m puttin’ myself on schedule making duty.”

Burr smiles at Mulligan's words, laughing, and for once, it feels real. Despite it all, he's found something to feel.

 

—

_September 7, 2015_

Peggy looks at the man who approaches them, and they can’t focus on his face. They can’t focus on anything, lately. He’s always so neatly dressed, when he visits. They can’t remember his name. Has he given them his name? He probably has. They feel rude for forgetting.

“Hello, Margarita,” he says. They want to correct him about their name, but their throat is too dry and they can’t make eye contact with him. 

They settle for waving instead.

The man’s words float through Peggy’s head. He monologues in a kind of sing-songy way— Peggy giggles a few times in response, and they remember feeling worried about Eliza, for some reason.

They don’t remember any words exchanged.

A woman who they kind of recognize comes into the room, walks them outside, which is weird, leaves, and Peggy falls asleep. The ground is cold, but it’s softer than whatever Peggy has been sleeping on for the past few days. They don’t remember what that was, even.

When they wake up, they don’t remember any of this. They don’t remember a lot of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some notes!
> 
> [1] burr and maria actually did know each other, in case you were unaware-- he was her divorce lawyer. i feel like there were maybe exactly three lawyers in the new york area in the late eighteenth/early nineteenth century sometimes, because this is not the only coincidence like this. freaky.  
> [2] for the sake of this au, burr's parents lived a little longer than they did irl-- until he was about, say, six, rather than dying when he was a baby.  
> [3] i am slowly, slowly making my way through both the chernow bio of ham and the isenberg bio of burr and they are both ruining me. i love garbage.  
> [4] not really related to this chapter but i feel so weird having characters in this fic who live in the d.c. area because literally everything here is named after a founding father. the city itself is named after gwash. what would we call our high schools. what would we call our colleges, our roads. what is the state of virginia even like in a universe where james madison is alive in the 21st century rather than the eighteenth.
> 
> comments are my lifeblood.
> 
> twitter: @farmerefuted  
> tumblr: @oceanicairline


	7. hearts and minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Elizabeth Schuyler Has A Rough Day, maria is Free for once in her life, burr is freaked out by something, and our author thinks it is prime time to reveal the (obvious, frankly) ben linus proxy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for references to physical abuse, an age gap (of four years), memory loss, and captivity.
> 
> enjoy!

_ September 7, 2015 _

Eliza finds their body, breathing lightly, on the jungle ground, and she jumps. Angelica gasps, and Washington, Martha, Tom, and a woman named Kathryn all squint, sort of, confused— they’ve already looked here. Eliza realizes very quickly that she is crying, and that she probably shouldn’t be shaking Peggy so hard, but it’s them and they’re alive and they don’t look too injured and they were just about to give up and and and—

Peggy wakes up and croaks out a “Liza?”  
“Yeah, yeah, it’s me, are you alright?”  
“What’s goin’ on?”  
“We found you, you’re alright, where have you been?”  
“What?”  
“You’ve been gone for almost two days.”  
“Where—“

Angelica steps in, her mother hen face on.

“Peg, what’s wrong?”  
“Where the fuck are we?”  
“The plane crashed, we’re— we’re on an island, babe.”  
“Are you— is this a joke?”  
“No, no, sweetheart—“

Eliza’s hands begin to shake— she’s always worrying about Peggy, always afraid something would happen— she’s got to protect them, she and Angelica swore the both of them would. And Eliza, she should have been paying attention on the hike, and now Peggy’s hurt, and oh God how could she have been so unobservant and it’s all her fault that Peggy is hurt, oh God.

“Peggy, do you remember any part of the last week and a half?” Washington asks  
“I remember the plane crashing— I was screaming. I remember a— I remember a bunch of faces but no names, no, like, people. Or happenings or that kinda shit.”

Eliza holds her breath, inhaling more air with every word Peggy says— their voice is quivering, almost, it’s horrifying, Eliza can't take it. 

 

—

  _August 20, 2015_  

“Dad, are you sure you can handle her?”  
"The house gets lonely with only two of you around,” says Eliza’s father, “And I have, as you know, handled five entire toddlers in my life. I’m pretty sure I can handle your perfectly well-behaved one. God knows it’ll be easier than all of you.”

She forces out a laugh. Part of her is glad to be able to take a break from Being A Mom and enjoy her last few weeks of Not Being A Real Adult With A Real Job with Peggy and Angelica, but part of her worries— there’s always part of her that worries. She knows her dad has handled kids before, this much is obvious, but Angie is so sensitive. Eliza’s not sure if the kid can handle a week and a half without her or Angelica or Peggy.

“Elizabeth,” he says, staring at her and smiling, “She’ll be fine.”  
“Okay,” she says, because she believes him, she should have complete faith in him— he’s her father, she knows him.  
“It’s ten days.”  
“Ten days.”  
“You’ll have fun, you’ll have a good time, you’ll come home safe and sound.”  
“You know her allergies— and put her to bed by eight, no exceptions. No soda, because she’s two, and if she cries, play Chopin, it helps. She really, really likes Chopin. I don’t know why.”  
“You told me this yesterday, and you wrote it in the manual, which is in the... blue binder?”  
“Red binder. And, yes, I know, but I was just reviewing.”  
“Okay, dearest. Now, you need to be at the airport in an hour. Go.”

She kisses Angie’s forehead, tells her to have a fun week with grandpa, and yells her goodbyes. It will be fine, she promises herself.

 

—

  _September 7, 2015_

Now, Maria’s usually the type to doubt everything thrown at her, but this whole “Magic Code Saving The World With Electromagnetism” thing is surprisingly believable. And the Lafayette guy is charming, once she gets past the original impression of “He’s a goddamned zombie with very nice looking hair.”

(Should she feel bad for being into him? Probably, but she doesn’t care. She tossed her ring into the ocean the day of the crash, and she doesn’t regret it. He’s dead and gone, and thank God for that.)

“Boys,” she says, when the chit-chat goes on too long, “We should start actually getting the food out. You got bags down here, Frenchie?”  
“Oui,” says Lafayette, a hint of distaste in his voice, “And are we using nicknames so soon?”  
“Maybe?”  
“Yo, I thought you were with Angelica,” says John, “You gonna flirt with everything in sight? Evenstrange men in underground bunkers? No offense, Lafayette.”  
“I haven’t flirted with you, babe,” she says. And she doesn’t plan to. She’s got a damn good gaydar, in her own opinion.  
“Fair point,” he responds, “And yeah, where are the bags? And the food?”  
“Food’s back behind the kitchen over there, I’ll grab the bags. Mulligan?”  
“Coming.”

The pantry of the Hill has more food than Maria could imagine— it’s like those TV shows about people who stock up on canned shit for the apocalypse, which Mariasupposes is kind of what the Hill is like.

“Maria,” says Alex, “John reminded me of something. On the plane, you mentioned something, and I don’t really mean to pry, like, it’s your life, for you to go about however you want, but—“  
“Yes, I’m married, Alex.”  
“Was he on the plane?”  
“He was in the bathroom when we went down. Nasty way to go out.”  
“Oh, I, uh, think I saw him— He’s not bad—“  
“He’s awful. I don't want to think about him. You good with that?"  
“Oh.”

He says nothing more of it.

 

—

_March 10, 2010_

She’s eighteen and he’s twenty two when they get married. She didn’t really want to, but she can’t say no to him. Something about his sense of honor, about his eyes. They do it quickly, quietly, and only tell her parents at the last minute. They run away together— it’s romantic, he says, and she believes him. She wasn’t going to college anyways, she was saving up for next year or the one after that.

James is driving her across the country, and they’ll travel the world together, he promises. They’ll start in Philly and end in L.A., and it’s going to be great.

“Hon’,” she says, one morning in a motel, two hours after they were supposed to leave, reading some article about a kid from a third-world country trying to crowdfund his way to America, (or some useless shit like that,) “We gonna get going soon?”  
“Don’t question me,” he says, a tad too harshly for her liking, but hey, it’s morning.  
“Alright,” she says, and purses her lips, “But you said we’d leave by eight A.M., this place is fuckin’ scary.”  
“You ain’t even dressed.”  
“Neither are you.”

They don’t leave the motel that day.

(He hurts her that night, for the first, but not the last time. She yells at him in response, but neither of them mean it, she doesn’t think— at least she doesn’t mean it— and he wouldn’t do this to her intentionally, he loves her. He loves her so, so much, she is so, so special, he tells her afterwards, purring out the word “special.”)

(She doesn’t think she loves him, not really. But hey, he wanted her, she obliged him. He’s older and smarter, and he’s gonna get better. She can fall in love along the way.)

 

— 

_September 7, 2015_

Peggy arrives back on the beach with only mild panicking— Eliza’s carrying most of that, frankly, and Peggy represses theirs. Which isn’t healthy, Eliza knows, but she’s thankful for it now, because Peggy panicking would make the situation about forty-two thousand times worse.

Philip Hamilton runs up to the group to ask what’s wrong, and Washington awkwardly stumbles through an explanation, trying to tone it down to his interpretation of an eleven-year-old’s comprehension level. Peggy glares, says, “Yo, right here,” and Philip nods his head.  
“So she’s got amnesia? Or memory loss or something?”  
“We’re gonna ask John when he gets back,” says Angelica, calmer than she should be, “He’s got more medical training than the rest of us. Your brother said how long he’d take?”  
“Nah, Mr. Mulligan said three hours at most and it’s been two and a half, though, so. There’s that? You alright, Peggy?”

Eliza exhales a breath she feels like she’s been holding in for fifty years, but it’s not enough to calm her. She’s choked up and she feels useless in the situation— her sibling could have died and her daughter and her youngest siblings and her father all think they’re all dead, and it’s too much to handle.

Washington begins to speak— he pulls out a sheet of crumpled notebook paper from his jean pocket, before he does, and squints at it.

“I need to talk to all of you— once Mulligan’s group gets back, we’ll gather here, alright? I’m going to gather everyone.”

He marches off, Martha running after him, a look of concern on her face. Philip, Madison, and Tom stand around while Eliza and Angelica hover over Peggy, who is telling them to “chill,” and telling the men to “stop staring.”

Fifteen minutes later, five people emerge from the jungle, laughing, carrying massive bags. Eliza can’t recognize one of them, but it’s only been nine days, she can’t possibly know everyone.

Philip runs away from the Peggy Circle (as Peggy themself has dubbed it) to embrace his brother, who lifts him up and Eliza feels calm for a moment.

“Who’s this?” Angelica asks Maria, who she kisses to greet. Angelica then gestures to the man Eliza didn’t recognize.  
“It’s complicated,” says Mulligan, from the other side, but not before Madison can ask “Where’s the Princeton Prodigy?”  
“Burr?” says Alex, and then adds “He’s busy, we’ll get to that in a moment. This is Monsieur Lafayette— his real name is approximately twenty-three words longer, but, you know, just call him Lafayette.”  
“He can also speak,” says the man named Lafayette, giving a quick wave. He looks at everyone warily, and Eliza feels as if she recognizes him from somewhere. He looks as if he hasn’t seen another human in a lifetime.  
“But first,” says Maria, with a hint of concern in her voice, which surprises Eliza, “What happened to them?”

Angelica briefly explains the situation to a shocked audience. There's commotion, and it quiets as quickly as it starts, everyone going about what they need to do before anything major happens. Philip runs to grab a book he had left somewhere earlier, and Tom goes back to his tent-cave. 

John has crouched over Peggy to help her, things are making the slightest bit of sense, Mulligan and Maria are emptying bags full of canned food onto the ground, things are alright, for once, it seems. Eliza still is having trouble breathing.

“You alright?” asks Alex, breaking the near-silence. She looks in his eyes, dark and knowing.  
“Been better,” she says, trying to laugh, “Thank you for asking, though.”  
“Not a problem, Elizabeth Schuyler.”

He smiles at her. She’s charmed.

“You know,” he says, “I used to live on an island. Before Felipito over there and I moved to the States.”  
“Must feel like home.”  
“At least a few people here enjoy my presence,” he says, with a laugh. He starts talking about his life, before, and he’s a damn good storyteller. His voice, soft, is good for breathing along to.  
“Okay, I gotta go talk to Washington. You good?”  
“I’m good.”

 

—

  _September 7, 2015_

Burr wrote the code on his forearm in permanent marker, so he types it in perfectly as soon as the alarm goes off. It’s still stressful as all shit, though, and he can see why Lafayette is the way he is, after three years of living in here.

And he knows these numbers like his own mind anyways. He tries to throw it away as coincidence, because it must be, but these are his numbers, the ones that follow him everywhere he goes.

(He had told his sister about them, and she had laughed, because how superstitious can you be, A? Nothing’s cursing us, we’re just unlucky.)

 

—

  _September 8, 2015_

Theodosia lies to George’s face about what she’s done— says they didn’t see her, says she was busy watching them, the people from the front of the plane, when the youngest Schuyler escaped. The camera must have glitched out, she tells him, he should know she would never betray him, she has earned his trust.

She thinks of home, when she lies. It helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notes notes notes
> 
> [1] lost is even more overt in obnoxiously connecting characters, so i feel i have every right in the world to do it.  
> [2] tech week for my school's musical is next week so expect 0 updates as i will literally be dying every single night.  
> [3] Blargh.  
> [4] four weeks until i see hamilton!  
> [5] what if i made a brief guide to lost mythology for non-lostie readers? would anyone be interested in that?
> 
> comments make the world go round.
> 
> twitter: @farmerefuted  
> tumblr: @oceanicairline
> 
> UPDATE 2/13: [here is a link to a mythology gude](http://oceanicairline.tumblr.com/post/139236181508/lost-a-guide-for-the-uninformed-by-someone-who-is)


	8. special

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the author tries to confuse you, a little bit, because the concept they are trying to introduce confuses them a little bit; angelica and alexander had very different teenage years, a speech is written and delivered, and hey, isn't that the fic summary down there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time for some filler/mythology exposition, rather than plot! because it is tech week and i am very tired.  
> for those of you who didn't notice, i made a guide to lost mythology! [check it out!](http://oceanicairline.tumblr.com/post/139236181508/lost-a-guide-for-the-uninformed-by-someone-who-is) please note that i have literally listened to nothing but the kiss me kate soundtrack (not by choice) all week so. the state of mind i'm in might show up in the writing. save me.
> 
> anyways, so. warnings for alcohol usage, implications of panic attacks, religion kind of, natural disasters, and lost having really weird (but interesting!) shit that comes along with it.
> 
> also it's opening night and i have 2 tests tomorrow please pray 4 me.

_ September 8, 2015 _

“You don’t need a totally formal speech for this kinda thing,” he says, “But I think that we need to inspire unity. I have a draft here in my journal from a few days back, it’s only seven-fifty words but I need to elaborate— plus, accounting for the Lafayette-And-Peggy Situations, I need to address those things too. And, we need a written version for whoever’s on Hatch Duty.”  
“Hatch Duty?” Asks Washington when Alex takes a breath between sentences.  
“Mulligan is making a schedule as to who’s in the Hatch thing— Lafayette’s old place— when, because it’s not really practical for one person to do it constantly, y’know?”  
“You don’t need to make the speech long, Alexander.”  
“It has to be _good._ ”

He’s a writer, he writes freelance for internet journalists, he wrote his way off St. Croix, he needs words to survive. He doesn’t understand the strength of brevity, as Professor Teller called it on his notes of that one essay. 

“Why am I reading your words, Alex?” asks Washington, “I don’t need to give this speech.”  
“You’re perceived as a leader, like it or not. Plus, you’re crazy successful— don’t tell me you haven’t done, like, twenty years of training with PR people. I am a college student.” He doesn’t add the normal prefixes that people add (bastard, orphan, son of a whore, immigrant, the likes of that) to take pity on him, Washington doesn’t need to know.  
“Word choice here is important,” he says, ignoring any of Washington’s other protests— “You want the people to feel safe, which, we all know, they aren’t, but we want them to feel it.”

Washington nods.

—

_ April 8, 2007 _

“You’re special,” says Hugh Knox, as they sit on the beach, in between going over the day’s lessons, “So, so special.”  
“Thank you,” says Alex, “But I’m really not.”  
“I’m not just referring to your writing, Alex.”

Alex tenses. He hates this kind of talk, the kind that paints him as something Other. He just wants to study, he wants to make his way out of here.

Knox changes the subject, “How’s your brother?”  
“Yeah, uh, he’s alright— he doesn’t trust Monsieur Stevens very much, but he loves Ned. What do you mean by not just referring to my writing?” He needs answers.  
The reverend hums, for a moment, and says “You don’t know what I’m referring to?”  
“No, sir.”  
“You have talents beyond that which I can describe— a gift from God.”  
Alex stares for a second, then says, “Then He will also gift me with a way to rise above my current station, I suppose?”  
Knox nods. Alex wants this conversation to be over as soon as it possibly can be. Knox doesn’t respond, other than to say, “So on the subject of Mr. Stevens—“ and thunder drowns out his voice.   
“I gotta go,” says Alex, “Make sure Philip is alright. Thank you, Father, I’ll send you the next few essays by the end of the week.”  
  
Storms are typical. This is a light one, too, but just strong enough to cancel Alex’s tutoring and to kind of frighten Philip. Ned laughs at him, but affectionately, and Alex whispers “To ten.” The house is loud, still bursting with energy as the rain hits. It’s nice. Alex can’t stand the quiet.

—

_ September 8, 2015 _

Peggy is under constant supervision, which they complain about rather loudly about— “Just cuz I got kidnapped or whatever the hell y’all think happened, it doesn’t mean I need to be babysat.” Angelica, however, knows that they do need to be babysat— they’re the middle child, out of the five kids, but they’re still so young compared to Angelica. Angelica, currently on Peggy Duty, hovers more than she should. 

Miss Maria Lewis walks back over to the two of them, a smug grin on her face— is she ever not smug, though?  
  
“Hey,” she says, nodding at Peggy and putting her hand (her skin is so, so soft) on Angelica’s shoulder, “How you doing?”  
“This one’s whining about being taken care of.”  
“This one doesn’t need to be taken care of, asshole. Need a review on your name, I’m thinking Maria?” with the wrong pronunciation.  
“Mar-eye-ah, man.”  
“Close enough,” says Peggy, with a dismissive gesture.  
“I actually, uh, wanted to talk with your sister alone?”   
“Go ahead—“  
“Maria, I can’t. I gotta take care of them.”

Maria pouts, then licks her lips. 

“Gimme ten minutes. Don’t you have a schedule to make?”  
“Mulligan took charge. Can we at least discuss politics or your work or family or something? Small talk, that kinda shit. I like hearing you talk.”  
Peggy groans.  
“So, on the subject of this upcoming election—“  
“Go deeper than that, that’s so… _overdone_. Tell me about y’all’s family.”  
“Oh, I can tell you some shit about Angie here,” starts Peggy, grinning.  
“If you call me Angie, I am never going to leave your side. Ever.”  
"You wouldn't dare."

—

_ May 23, 2007 _

“You,” she says, a little too loudly, into her flipphone, “Are talking to the national speech and debate champion. Officially.”  
“Right after the twelve year old who won last year,” says Eliza, thirteen, giggling. Angelica’s roommate, Amy Chu, laughs too. Angie shoots her a glare. Angelica is a sophomore in high school, top of all her classes, and now _this._ She’s on top of the world. 

“But for real! Congrats, Ang, You deserve this more than anyone on earth ever. How’s school?” Eliza says, and Angelica can hear her smile over the line.  
“Love you,” she says drawing out the “oo" sound, “It’s pretty normal, except! Champion!”  
“Yes! Margarita says hi, by the way.”  
“Hi Margarita!”  
  
The conversation drags on for a few more minutes, with affection and congratulations and a “Dad’s still in Alaska for whatever reason, but call him tomorrow at like, noon your time, to tell him.”

She starts on the homework she fell behind on at the conference, and God, she thinks, she is so lucky, right now.  
  
“Did you get a trophy?” asks Amy, about five minutes after the phone call and about two minutes into Angelica’s mini celebratory dance party to no music in particular.  
“Of course! Why did you think my bag was so big?”  
“I thought that was just your shit.”  
“Hey, rude.”

It’s a good day. 

—

_ September 8, 2015 _

Alex finishes writing the speech slower than he usually writes, but Washington is still impressed. 

“My teacher, when I was a kid, said I had a gift.”  
“Your teacher was correct, this is very— quite good, Alex.”  
“Thanks, you can edit it however you want. Your Excellency.”  
Washington furrows his eyebrows in confusion.  
“That was. That was a joke. I was joking and it didn’t work.”

Washington then nods. “I think I’ll cut down the length, people might get… bored, if I read them three pages of material.”  
“ _Inspirational_ material.”  
“Thank you, Alex. What’s your last name again, son?”  
Alex quiets, briefly, uncomfortable with the nickname, probably more than he should be— “ _Not your son,_ ” he says, a little angrier than he planned, but Washington doesn’t look like he’s thrown by it, “And it’s Hamilton.”  
“Your name rings a bell.”  
“It’s common. I gotta go— John is yelling for me. Clingy ass.”  
“Don’t swear.”  
“Yes, sir.”

John, as it turns out, just wanted to say hi and talk. It’s a decent escape from Washington, who is kind of overbearing. John is a welcome change of pace— loudly joking, yelling for Lafayette so that Lafayette can show Alex something he showed John, Lafayette responds "can't find it," slurring a little bit.

John says, in a stage whisper— “Hatch alcohol.”  
“In the middle of the day?”  
“Workin’ on my third glass right now.”  
“Jesus.”  
“Want some?”  
“Obviously.”

—

_ August 3, 2007 _

The hurricane came a few months after Knox says the word _special_ to Alex like _that_ , and devastation reigned. (He was panicking about it days before it hit, not sure about how he knew of it, and when it did hit, the thunder was echoing his breaths. Philip clings to his legs, it doesn’t help. Later, he will hear that the storm wasn’t predicted. Knox had asked him if he had known afterwards. You are special, he says, you are special, and you have to be carefully taught.) Afterwards, he writes—

_Dearest Father,_

_You have missed so much of us, and now, I take up my pen just to give you an imperfect account of one of the most dreadful_ (the ink smudges, here) _hurricanes that any memory or any records can trace, I believe._

—and more and more, and he was delirious when he wrote it, and it gets put online by someone, probably Ned or Reverend Knox. An Open Letter to My Father, Wherever He May Be, it is titled, and the note before it reads: 

“The following letter was written the week after the St. Croix hurricane, by a teenaged orphan, a Mr. Alexander Fontana Hamilton, residing there, to his father; the copy of it fell by accident into the hands of a friend, who, upon reading it, spread this to alert an international audience as to the affect this storm is having on the people. Mr. Hamilton, originally from Puerto Rico, is raising money for his college education in the United States. To find out more about his story, and to donate, go to goo.gl/eptBjz.”

He hates that it went public, kind of, because it is _far_ from his best, but hey, it’s bringing in donations— one from some big Californian businessman whose name Alex forgets, a lot from little old ladies from Atlanta, Georgia. Pity money, but money nonetheless. He needs this. He writes more. Publishes more. There is so much work for him to do.

—

Peggy comes out of their shell, talking to Maria and embarrassing Angelica (their, quote, number one hobby.) It scares Angelica, actually, how much Peggy knows about her, because the seven year difference left a pretty remarkable gap between their ages. And still, they somehow know about the whole “almost eloping with a British MP two years ago” thing, which Angelica thought _no one_ knew about.

Maria laughs at her, not rudely. The girl is talented at being charming, and Angelica is almost angry about it— and the lack of acknowledgement of what happened between them the other day— it’s bothering her. 

A slightly tipsy (which, how?, but she knows this is the truth,) Eliza, interrupts them, saying, a little too loudly, “Washington wants to give a _speech._ Come to the fuselage— that’s a really fun word, actually, I gotta use it more— and listen, Alex is really hyping it up. Miss Speech and Debate Champion here, you gotta judge it.”  
“Speech and debate?” says Maria, snickering.  
_“High school_.”

—

September 8, 2011

He says, heavily paraphrasing Alex’s words, “A lot has happened recently, and I need not elaborate, we all know what’s going on,” and he hears a “Stop mangling my _words,_ ” from a very drunk Alex, ten feet away. Philip is laughing from several yards away, currently perched on top of Martha’s shoulders. 

“We need to band together— all of us. We cannot depend on just ourselves,” (a pointed look at Senator Madison, a loner,) “Or our families,” (at the Schuylers). “We need to communicate, we need to unite. See, I know that last week, most of us were strangers, but we can't stay like that. Rescue, were it coming, would have been here days ago. We were off course. You know this.”

“What the _fuck_ happened to my speech?” he hears Alex try and whisper to John, who shrugs, and says “It’s alright, babe.”

“We need to stick together— Peggy got left behind the other day, and look what happened to them—“ (they glare at him, this time, he’ll apologize later,) “We need to realize that if we can’t live together, we’re going to die alone.”  


“You kept that part in? Thank _God_ ,” says Alex  
“That is the cheesiest shit I’ve ever heard, Alex,” responds Mulligan, laughing.  
“I thought it was nice,” says Eliza. “To the point. Unlike the draft you showed us.”

“Anyways,” says George, cutting the kids off before they banter the night away, “Please, stick together, for all of our sakes.”  
“We gonna sing Kumbayah now?” asks Maria Reynolds. He holds in a laugh and simply stares at everyone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes @ my writing
> 
> notes:  
> [1] in this fic, angelica went to an east coast all girl's boarding school because hey, those are fun and there are a lot of those.  
> [2] hugh knox was a priest on st. croix and a friend/father figure/teacher to hamilton. he was, to my memory, pretty involved in the publishing of the poem/letter post-hurricane.  
> [3] related, edward "ned" stevens was a sort of... adoptive brother of hamilton on st. croix. most people assumed they were actual brothers because they looked quite a bit alike. maybe someday i'll start writing casting descriptions for the minor characters in this fic?  
> [4] yes angelica did secretly elope with a british mp but most of you probably know this.  
> [5] alexander's letter and the caption that accompanied it are adapted from the actual letter and the caption that accompanied in it newspaper. washington's speech is loosely adapted from lost season one episode five (thus, live together, die alone.)  
> [6] for how the hurricane and events afterwards actually went down, the first few chapters of chernow's book are nice.  
> [7] WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH LOST LMAO
> 
> check me out on [tumblr](http://oceanicairline.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/farmerefuted) and leave comments if you want!


	9. numbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which more plot occurs in the flashbacks than the actual plot, and john and peggy spend some quality time time together. (in which peggy had a rough few days and in which john had a... wild night.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello hello!
> 
> 1\. i'd just like y'all to know that AS OF TODAY (february second, twenty-sixteen), there are exactly TWO WEEKS until i, your humble author, see hamilton an american musical.  
> 2\. INTRODUCING ON ISLAND FLASHBACKS! lost fans will recognize on island flashbacks from episodes such as The Other 48 Days, Live Together Die Alone, and that one michael-centric episode that i forget the name of! (two minutes? was it called two minutes? i think it was. WAIT NO it was called three minutes.)  
> 3\. WARNINGS for this chapter include: anxiety attacks, kidnapping, chloroforming (always a Huge Fear of mine, might as well warn others just in case), and strong implications of (consensual, dw,) sex. also. alcohol.

_ September 9, 2015 _

“Type ‘em in,” says Burr, the next morning, “Then I’ll go. You remember the code?”  
“Of course,” Peggy responds, perhaps too boldly. He intones annoyingly on _remember_ , as if mocking them.

They had signed up to go if only to get away from everyone else— who were reasonably worried, but honestly, Peggy doesn’t need to be under locked guard. John had volunteer to come with them (and Angelica, although she would rather do it herself, trusts him, and Peggy said they’d like to re-get-to-know people), for protection’s sake, but he was being relatively cool about it. They type in the numbers as soon as the beeping starts— it’s annoying, best do it fast. 

Burr shakes his head, gives some quick regards to John that Peggy doesn’t listen to, and leaves. He’s got a nice voice, they decide, the kind that’s in the audiobooks their dad made them listen to when they were a kid. 

And then it’s just John and Peggy, and it’s quiet, for just a moment.

“So,” he says, scanning the room with his eyes, “How’ve you been… adapting?”  
“Don’t talk to me about the kidnapping bullshit.”  
“Alright,” he says, “No kidnapping bullshit, I’ll write that down. You wanna start a conversation, then? Because I am not sitting with you silent for six hours.”  
“Twenty questions.”  
“No,” he says.  
“Okay, so tell me a _story,_ John.”  
“You joking?” he asks, snorting a little as he laughs.  
“Never.”  
“Okay,” he raises his eyebrows, puts his hands up in a surrendering motion, “Okay, so once upon a time, there was this, this, like— I don’t have a story.”  
“Six hours of this.”  
“You know it.”

—

 

( _Rewind: September 5, 2015:_

Peggy’s captor accidentally left the door open, an amateur move, in Peggy’s opinion, but they’re stuck here anyways. Peggy can hear, for once, though, which leaves them, at least slightly, in the know.

“Three of them— on _one plane_! He has access to the Continental— this must have been purposeful, on his part. He wouldn’t have sent all three of them away without _knowing,_ you know him.”

“He’s not the one in that family with access, _Jim_ , in case you don’t recall. And he wouldn’t risk this, he knows we have no mercy towards him. And speaking of people on that plane—” his voice drops.

Jim isn’t really the type of the name Peggy would expect from an evil kidnapper on a deserted island. Like, Hans, maybe, that would suit him. But they keep listening anyway—

  
“He’s not mine. We have no proof—“  
“The stories add up. Remember what happened on your little… vacation?”  
A “Humph,” is the only response Jim gives the other person he’s speaking to, a man with athick British accent, who Peggy recognizes as the One In Charge.  
“Anyways— I want it done, so I need you to get the other two, as well as— _yours_.”

Peggy can almost hear “Jim,” rolling his eyes, as he responds to the other, “Of course, _sir,_ I’ll talk to the insiders.”

“Good. Remember—“  
“No leaking to the outside world, of _course._ I’m not so reckless.”  
“You’re so reckless as to leave the door open, though, aren’t you? Schuyler heard everything, didn’t you?”  
  
Peggy doesn’t respond— they pretend to be asleep, actually. The door slams shut, and Peggy goes back to panicking as quietly as they can.)

 

—

  _September 9, 2015_

John notes, upon seeing the timer, that exactly one hour has passed. Peggy has moved on from Destiny’s Child to various show-tunes to Nicki Minaj, in their impromptu a cappella karaoke session that began at the twenty minute mark, and, while it’s making his migraine about eighty times worse due to sheer volume, he has to admit they’re an okay singer. It’s keeping his mind off last night, and he really, really wants to keep his mind off last night.

They’re about halfway through Roman Vacation when they stop and look at him, probably because he’s keeled forward holding his head.

“Alright there?”  
“I threw up in the ocean this morning,” he says, looking straight at them for a second, unblinking.  
“Okay, Laurens, don’t need to know that.”  
“And I don’t need to know every song Cole fucking Porter ever wrote. We’re both goin’ through shit today.”  
“Hm,” they says, and they stare at him, “I’ve only done one Cole Porter song.”  
“It was six minutes long.”  
“Still only one song,” they singsong.

And it’s back to Peggy Schuyler, live in concert, for another ten minutes.   


“How fucked up is it that we’ve been here for two weeks?”  
“I don’t think it’s been two full weeks. Ang said it was like, eleven days as of this morning.”  
“Don’t be a smartass, Peggy.”  
“You know any songs, John?”  
“I don’t think you understand the exact level of hungover I am right now, man. I’m not gonna sing.”  
“Come _on._ ”  
“You keep doin’ your thing, I’ll join in if I want.”  
“Fuck you,” they say, laughing, and going right back into song.

 

—

  _September 9, 2015, Earlier_

(“Let me _convince_ you,” he says, holding John’s hips, “That I share your— you called ‘em sentiments.” The word is slurred around in the shorter man’s mouth, but John gets the point. His skin is soft, and his _eyes—_ his eyes, they kill him. Alexander is beautiful, Alexander is _here._

John whispers an “okay,” in his ear. Well, doesn’t whisper so much as says in a normal volume, but with the intent of whispering.

The kiss that follows isn’t _soft_ or _perfect_ , there are no fireworks that surround it, and John tastes the same shitty hatch wine he’s been drinking all over Alex. But it’s still _good,_ and it ends all too soon. John is the one who pulls away, but he regrets that the minute he does— he goes back in for more.

And they keep kissing, and it’s wonderful, and Alex pulls John into a tent— John’s tent, not Alex’s— because Philip is asleep, probably.

And Alex smiles at him and says, “So much for being all words, huh?”

John only laughs in response, and puts his hands through Alex’s hair. It’s not usually down, like it is now, but God, he should wear it like this all the time— 

Alex is still all over him— calloused fingertips moving around at light speed, touching every bit of exposed skin, and John decides to do him a favor and begin unbuttoning the shirt he’s been wearing all day—

“John,” says Alex, smiling, dark eyes almost gleaming with determination, “You wanna—“  
“Of course.”)

 

—

_September 9, 2015_  

Three hours into, as John dubbed it at one hundred and eight minute mark, “Six Hours In Hell: Now A Fucking Musical,” Peggy remembers something. 

Now, they try to repress the thoughts that are coming into their head, but at this point, they cannot. There are so many things that they can _see_ in such vivid detail, hyper-saturated colors and ear-shattering volumes with every single memory. 

“Peggy?” says John, but his voice hurts their head— “Are you alright? What’s going—“  
“I,” they say, it’s all they can say, “They held me in a—“  
“They?” Their head hurts too much to focus on any part of what’s going on around them. John looks up at the timer (fifteen minutes), and then says, “Look, as soon as the next alarm goes off, I’m grabbing Eliza, okay? Right now, I’m— Lemme get you, like, hatch ibuprofen or something. Fuck, this was a bad idea.”  
  
He runs off, and then comes back too minutes later, hands full of things marked in all caps. He reads what his bounty is to them— “PAINKILLERS, REGULATION WASH CLOTH (with cold water), STRESS BLANKET, and also, I got you a cup of water. I can’t believe that four years of premed and two years of med-med are failing me right now, Jesus Christ.”  
“It’s cool—“ they say, downing the water along with three painkillers, “Thanks.”

(It’s not cool, actually, but hey, he’s trying. Peggy respects that.)

They can hear a voice, a laugh, not kind, in their head, and John’s voice, kind, worried, in reality, as they wrap themself in the blanket. 

The alarm blasts, John types, and he runs. Peggy doesn’t say anything.

 

—

_September 6, 2015_

(Peggy is being pulled through the jungle by a woman in all blue, whose hands are shaking. and they’re both going way too fast. Peggy cannot bring themself to speak. 

“Hurry, hurry,” she says, her voice faltering. She’s English, she’s just as scared as Peggy is. 

There’s a noise. A bird, maybe. It makes the woman beside Peggy tense up even more than she already has. Peggy gets out an “Um,” and the woman keeps running. 

“He’ll kill me,” says English, “He’ll kill me, he’ll me, he’ll kill me!”  
“Wh—“  
“Oh my God, I am dead, I am dead,” but she’s still running, and then she says, “No, no, no, I have Mark— he won’t do anything if Mark is there, oh my God, _you_ ,” and she finally addresses Peggy directly, “Are not to tell anyone of me. There are— there are so many spies, you’ll get one of us killed.”  
“Kay,” they respond. Their throat tickles. They trip over a root, then.”  
“Um,” says the woman, “Get up.”  
Peggy groans, and then complies.

They get back to running— it’s much further back to camp than Peggy remembers, they’re sweating. It’s early in the morning.

“Okay,” says the woman, letting go of Peggy’s hand, moving her hands up to her forehead, and then starts tearing through the bag around her shoulder, looking for something, “Okay, I am so, so, sorry for this. But at least you’re away from them now.”  


She holds a cloth off to Peggy’s face. The last thing they can remember is hitting their head on the ground, and a blurry, blue shape running full-speed away.)

 

—

  _September 9, 2015_

“Eliza!” he yells, across the beach, “Eliza or Angelica, one of you—“

Both run up to him, because they seem to only respond if addressed as a group. (He always wanted to be like that with his siblings— and maybe he did, with Matty and James, back in the day— but it’s too late now to improve anything.)  
  
“Why aren’t you with—“  
“Peggy is— remembering shit. Forreal, they were crying, shaking, it was— it wasn’t pretty. I thought one of you could help— y’all know them best.”

He notices that his leg is shaking, as he’s saying this, his leg is always shaking.  


“Aren’t you a doctor?” asks Angelica, who is trying (and failing, John decides) to appear calm, “Couldn’t you have helped?”  
“ _Med student_ , and I don’t really— what’s happened to Peggy is… fuckin’ weird, okay? I don’t understand it, I know jack _shit_ about amnesia. They’re definitely having a pretty severe anxiety attack— I got them water, a blanket, and I thought getting one of you would— would help.”  
“Okay,” says Eliza, “Okay, okay.” She’s talking more to herself than John or Angelica.

Alexander walks over, and John feels his face go warm— he doesn’t need this conversation right now—

“What’s wrong?”  
“Peggy’s— bad place— gotta run—“ John says, “You two— come with.”  
“John,” says Alexander, “I understand if last night—“  
“There’s a serious crisis, Alex, I can’t do this right now, okay? It was nice, it was nice, but we’ll talk logistical shit later. I. Have. To. Go.”

He sounds angrier than he wants to, but Alex gets the message and goes back to wherever he was— and John starts running with the Schuyler sisters back to the hatch.

Could have gone worse, he decides.

 

—

  _September 9, 2015, Earlier_

(He wakes up with a hangover in Alex’s arms, and he remembers every second of the previous night all at once— for all its pleasure, for all its embarrassment. And he, being a generally reasonable man, begins to panic. So he, gently as he can, lifts up Alex’s arm, and crawls out form under the blankets, puts on his clothes, and discreetly exits his tent. He can’t talk to anyone ever again, especially not Alex.

And he sees Peggy and Angelica arguing about whether Peggy can be on Hatch Duty by themself, so he does the reasonable thing and volunteers. Six hours of quiet, of not having to confront Alex.

“Are you _sure?_ ” Angelica asks him, “Because I can do it.”  
“I kinda wanna talk to more people, Ang. He seems nice—“  
“Right here,” he says, “Angelica, trust me. Nothing bad will happen under my watch. I promise.”  
After what seems like an eternity, Angelica musters out a “fine.”

He’s free.)

 

—

  _September 9, 2015_

“Nothing bad will happen under my watch,” Angelica says, “Motherfucker—“  
“I didn’t think _this_ would happen.”  
  
Peggy is still on the one skinny chair in the hatch when their sisters come in— they’ve calmed, a little, but everything still hurts and being alone didn’t help.

Eliza takes their hand, and even though there’s too much to remember, too much going on, they feel— okay. They feel okay.

 

—

_September 10, 2015_  

Theodosia stares him down. She’s already packed her bag, she’s got to go and help them, she knows this.

“I’ll get the ones you need, for you. Write me a list.”  
“Miss Bartow—“  
“I use Prevost undercover.”  
“You’re not undercover now. Does Mark approve?”  
“Whatever. And ask Mark yourself.”  
“Alright,” he says, “If you _insist_ upon doing the job yourself— you’ve proved yourself a good… confidant, haven’t you? Miss Bartow, if you do not succeed— you know your punishment.”  
“Yes, George, I do.”  
  
She is prepared for it, anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> [1] the cole porter song referenced is too darn hot, in case you were wondering. it's a Jam but also i hate it.  
> [2] i can't write smut so i didn't. thanks.  
> [3] martha and james laurens! john's siblings. google 'em if you wanna know who they were, or wait for further john-centric chapters to hear my spin on 'em!
> 
> questions? comments? just wanna say hi? leave a comment! or, reach me on [tumblr](http://oceanicairline.tumblr.com) and [twitter](twitter.com/farmerefuted)


	10. not in portland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the author whispered, very loudly while writing this, "We're not the only people on this island and we ALL know it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i went back through some chapters and changed a few things! number one, Philip's name has been spelled wrong this whole time. number two, i added like. 2 inconsequential lines of dialogue, and number three I REALIZED I HAD GOTTEN JAMES MARCUS PREVOST'S NAME WRONG! i called him jacques. His name in this fic is now Mark. 
> 
> also i broke my chapter title trend because. NOT IN PORTLAND is a good episode and the title made sense here.

_ September 12, 2015 _

See, there are three things of note that occur exactly ten days after the plane crash.

Firstly, a stranger arrives on the beach, and gets sworn at in three languages by a Mr. Alexander Hamilton, as well as in one language by one Peggy Schuyler, while a Mr. Philip Hamilton and Mr. Aaron Burr look upon the situation with confusion. Secondly, a man named André disappears, with no warning, only a note on his pillow that says “Farewell,” in handwriting that James Madison confirms is André’s own. Thirdly, a pillar of smoke appears a few miles down the beach from where those who were in the crash are camping.

Washington notes all of these things, and does not know which to tackle first.

Jefferson advises to look into André. Alexander and the Schuylers seem most intent on interrogating the stranger, and Martha believes the smoke is of the utmost importance. He’s the _leader,_ many people have said, he needs to make this decision, to prioritize these things.

Instead, he volunteers for hatch duty where André had once been assigned.

Mulligan is with him, making pancakes on the stove of the hatch— it’s all very domestic. He’s not sure who would have taken charge, with him gone, but he assumes that lines would not be drawn so quickly— they’re a group of reasonable people, and with a stranger having shown up, some of the more… angry of the group would be busy.

“It’s not as if they’ll tear apart the beach, right?” he asks Mulligan, who is lamenting a pancake that he dropped on the floor.

“Don’t think so?”

 

—

  _September 12, 2015_

In fairness, they didn’t tear the beach apart. 

But they did fight— the stranger tied to a tree, when Peggy confirmed that she was one of the people that held them captive, had become almost irrelevant, besides Angelica interrogating her as civilly as possible. Jefferson and Alexander had begun arguing about forming a Smoke-Sourcing Party versus a André-Finding Party, and nearly everyone was getting involved— Burr is called a traitor by both sides involved, Eliza is declared by Senator Madison, Lafayette, and Peggy to be the new official interim leader, and she declares that Alexander is right and that Weird Smoke is more important than Person On A Hike. They keep arguing anyway. 

Which leaves Philip alone, mostly. He’s with John, who is desperately trying to avoid talking about himself, and with Maria, who is trying to teach him as many swear words as she possibly can while Alex is distracted.

“You realize I know how to swear, right?” he asks her, “I’m not two.”  
“That’s fair,” she responds, “I never babysat, I don’t know how to— take care of kids.”

She laughs, like that’s funny.

Suddenly, Philip hears something from the other side of camp, something from the stranger, who isn’t a stranger to Philip,but who _lied_ to him, which is worse. 

“André was _planted_ on your plane,” she says, harshly. Philip runs over, to listen in— John runs after him, and Maria just strolls—

“What d’you mean by that?” Angelica asks.

“Your plane crash. It was, um. Predicted. We have scientists off the island—“  
“And define ‘we,’” John says, stepping in front of Philip.

“We don’t have a name— it’s very complicated, it would take too long to explain.”

Philip peaks out behind John and says, “Explain anyways.”  


 

—

  _September 10, 2012_

The card from the charming Londoner peeks out of Theodosia’s pocket, as she walks home to her flat. It’s gloomy (she loves that word, in relation to weather, frankly,) but not raining.He had told her they, his foundation, had great opportunity for people with her _gifts_. He had emphasized that word so strongly— she doesn’t even know how he had heard of her, much less done research into her past, but she assumes a foundation as elite as Mittelos Bioscience has scouts or customer polls or something among those lines. A quick search shows they’re legitimate, and she decides she’ll inquire further after her appointment with the Patels.

And the appointment goes well, and she does get back to Mittelos. An American woman named Margaret (“Call me Margot,” she says, voice sickeningly sweet,) picks up the phone and talks to her about setting up an appointment with Ben. 

“It’s just protocol— if ol’ Marky approached you personally, you pretty much have the job in the bag.”

“Please thank Dr. Prevost again for me, and, uh, thanks! I guess!”  
“No problem, sweetheart, hope to see you soon!”  
“Are you up at the office in Oregon?” she asks, curious. Portland, Dr. Prevost had said earlier.  
“Did Mark… not tell you?”  
“Not tell me what?”  
“Oh, um, you’ll find out soon enough, I suppose. Hope to hear from you soon, Doctor Bartow!”

Margot hangs up the phone immediately after rushing through the syllables of the last few words, and Theodosia is left puzzled, but intrigued nonetheless. 

Her meeting with Ben is the next Thursday. She can wait that long. She’s damn good at waiting.

 

—

  _September 12, 2015_

Eliza speaks first, which she doesn’t often do, and says, “So why are you going against your… employer?”  
“They hurt your sibling, I… I don’t want to hurt people. That’s not what I came here for.”  
  
Eliza has trouble believing this, and as current Proxy Leader, this is helpful. She has to keep questioning. Jefferson and Hamilton (the younger,) had caught onto the situation at hand and calmed down, venturing over to investigate.

“ _You_ hurt our sibling, actually,” says Angelica, who hasn’t broken eye contact with the woman, it seems, for the entire morning, “Don’t take yourself out of the group— you left them on the _ground,_ injured, you left them for dead, and you expect—“

Eliza cuts her off, “You haven’t given us a name, even, we have no reason to trust that your intentions are good.”  
“Theodora? No, uh, Theodosia,” says Peggy, after a pause, like they’ve realized something impossible, “Some weird whiteass name like that. She went to dad’s galas, way back. I remember her. She always wears blue.”

Eliza stares at them, and then at the woman, and she— she knows Peggy is right. She’s seen this woman.

“Why’d you lie to me the other day?” Philip asks, loud, and Alexander cocks his head to the side, mouths a “What?” at everyone, “You told me you were one of us.”

“I was— I was checking to see if the beach was safe to drop Peggy off, to, uh, protect her—“  
“Why the _fuck,_ ” Alexander asks, “Did you talk to my brother, you—“  
“It’s not as if you haven’t lied to him, Alex— does he know about Lavien, does he know about, uh, what’s his name? Jaime?”

“Don’t say his name, don’t— How did you even get information on me? On _him_?“

“Alexander,” Eliza says, and she is joined by John Laurens, for that, but she continues by herself, “Calm down. And _you_ — don’t antagonize us. Any of us.”  
  
She can’t tell whether or not her voice is shaking. She doesn’t care.

 

—

  _September 17, 2012_

“The woman on the phone,” she says, twiddling her fingers, which she really, really shouldn’t do at a job interview, oh God, what if they’re writing this down, they won’t want her anymore, oh God, she holds them behind her back, “Uh, Margot, said that, um, there was something you hadn’t told me, regarding the office in Oregon? If it’s not necessary for me to know, uh, I completely understand, of course, that you wouldn’t tell me, but—“ She’s started tapping her heels.  
“It’s just a formality— we do not tell people about the location until we’re sure we want them. And, Doctor Bartow, we really do want you,” says Mark Prevost, with his annoyingly pretty eyes sparkling. Theodora didn’t even know eyes actually _did_ that, until now.  
“Okay, um,” she says, trying not to look too confused.  
“We’re not… really stationed in Portland, or in the United States. Our location is… confidential. It’s an island, uh, in the Pacific. Very little internet connection, little contact with the outside world, ” says Benedict, the American man next to Mark, “We understand if it’s a… turn off.”

It’s really not. But still she pauses.

She has nothing keeping her here. Her dad’s dead, her mother’s gone, she doesn’t have any siblings, doesn’t have the time or social skills to have close friends, the practice can be run without her—

“I’ll do it.”

“We’ll give you three months to get ready— We’re very excited to have you—“  
“I only need one.”

Benedict hands her a card, and says, “We’ll call you when we’re ready.”

 

—

  _September 12, 2015_

“Angelica, Eliza,” says Burr, quietly, and he looks at Alexander, too, for emphasis, “I think we’re all a little biased, here. We’re getting answers, but we’re also provoking her, and she’s doing the same in return.”  
“Statin’ the obvious,” says Laurens, sighing, “But we’re biased for a _reason,_ Aaron, Jesus Christ, she’s one of the people that hurt Peggy—“  
“I didn’t mean to do that, Mr. Laurens, _I didn’t know what I was being brought into_!”

Burr’s taking everything in about this woman— tall, blonde, maybe ten, fifteen years older than himself. She’s also undeniably beautiful— but she’s shaken, she’s— broken, by something. He can’t place it. He can usually place these kinds of things, broken people are the only kind he knows, he thinks.

And yet.

“So your name’s Theodosia?” he asks her, and then “Confirm or deny, please. We won’t hurt you, we’re above that.”  


(Some of them aren’t, he knows. And it's reasonable.)

“Confirmed,” she says, almost laughing, “Theo Bartow.”  
“Pleasure. You seem to know everyone’s names, already, so I won’t bother.”  
“We have files on all of you, Benedict Arnold compiled a list of your names. André helped.”

(“Damn,” says Jefferson, from the back.)

Angelica is holding Peggy, tightly, and Maria is touching her shoulder. Burr thinks fast—

“Did you hurt Peggy Schuyler in any way? Whatsoever?”  
“Not intentionally.”  
“But you did,” says Alexander, from afar, “With or without intention, you still hurt them—“  
“ _Cálmate_ ,” says Philip, a strange, if welcome, voice of reason to Alex.

Lafayette steps forward, and says, “Why did none of you.. others, help me? My team—“  
“Your team arrived three months before I did, and they were dead a month before I arrived. I don’t know why they didn’t— why they didn’t help, and once you were in the Hill— Seabury’s old partner had just died, we couldn’t have him alone.”  
“You could have,” says Angelica, “I don’t know, proposed a reasonable schedule, helped out once in awhile? We’re doing it. It’s only _logical_ that people-”  
“I’m not in charge, Miss Schuyler.”

“Stop cutting me off. S’rude. And if you’re ‘not in charge,’ what are you?” 

 

—

  _September 20, 2012_

“Head of research?” she asks Mr. King the second he shows her the lab she’s to work in, right after her own house. (She’s only here, on this (dreadfully hot) island for nine months, she really doesn’t _need_ a house, she can honestly just sleep on someone’s couch, but she’ll take it.) 

“We think you’re… gifted,” he says, “Doctor Bartow, we made this arrangement just for you. Here at Mittelos— before you ask, formerly known as Revolutionary, we changed our name, mid-eighties— we need gifted people. To study this island, and _protect_ its resources— we want the best. And you are,” a smile, a tap to her nose, “ _It_.”

“I’m flattered,” she says, “Really, honestly. But are you absolutely sure I’m… qualified?”

“Mark particularly recommended your name to us. He is absolutely the _best_ at reading people.”

There’s a buzz on the walkie-talkie on his lapel— it’s ridiculously unsuited to the tailored suit he’s wearing, she hears a staticky voice say, _GL questioning SS motives—,_ and King says, eyes rolling, “ _Awesome.”_

He presses the button on the walkie-talkie, says, “No interference, Clinton.”

“What’s that about?” she asks.

“Logistics. Boring, boring stuff, Dr. Bartow. You wouldn’t find anything _interesting_ about it. It’s all executive and we’re truly a boring, boring group. You get the _fun_ people— Mark is your co-head, obviously.”  
“Obviously,” she says, laughing.

“We’re so glad to have you.”

 

—

_September 12, 2015_  

“We have a shift,” Maria says, directing it towards Angelica, but making sure everyone can hear, “We should leave. Your sis can handle it,” she flashes a smile at Eliza, who is saying more today than Maria’s heard her say every other day combined.

“Eliza’s got it,” Angelica repeats to herself.

“Miss Schuyler, I am so, so sorry,” says Theodosia, like she means it, almost, “And to you too, Peggy.”  
“We gotta go,” says Maria, she’s never been one for confrontation, “See y’all soon.”

“Bye,” says Burr, a little too loudly, clearly taking her side, “Have fun.”  
“Will do!”  
“I’ll be back,” says Angelica, “And you’ll explain things, Miss Bartow,” emphasis on _Miss._

Maria pulls her away. 

It’s going to be a rough few days.

She tells Washington and Mulligan to enjoy managing the crowd. They both laugh, and Angelica just shakes her head at them.

It’ll be a rough wait for rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] featured characters: john andré, peggy shippen, james marcus prevost, guess the last one.  
> [2] lost episode plots/character backstories used: not in portland, juliet burke & slightly claire littleton re: peggy.  
> [3] HAPPY LOST LADIES APPRECIATION WEEK! if you want to see some lost ladies being appreciated, or just want to say hi, check me out on [tumblr](oceanicairline.tumblr.com)  
> [4] i'm semi-fluent in spanish and only one word is in spanish in this chapter, but i really only know the peruvian dialect, so if you're familiar with pr's dialect of spanish, please tell me if i get something wrong now or in the future!  
> [5] theodosia + the LARGE majority of the others are going to be white-- calling back to the representation of the british as white w/in the show.
> 
> questions, comments, just wanna say hi? comment! or reach me on twitter @farmerefuted, where on march 12 i will be posting selfies with the ham cast and also crying about set design and having seen the show live, probably.


	11. two for the road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which maria decides to investigate something, and lafayette helps, the author imagines their favorite lost character having more than three friends and actually doing things, on occasion, and also, enter the [SPOILER]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have finals next week but also i'm seeing hamilton next week so that's pushing me to write fast, ya feel.
> 
> warnings for abuse, captivity, and mentions of sex. so um. skip maria's flashbacks if you don't want to hear about abuse? they're the second and fourth sections, and aren't necessarily plot-relevant.
> 
> and for the flashbacks? we revisit a few things from early chapters, but from different point of views.
> 
> for my lostie readers, i don't pointlessly kill off two awesome characters in this chapter, regardless of what the title may imply.

_ September 15, 2015 _

Everyone expects a solid answer as to the “mysterious smoke that does not look like the weird shit we saw night one a long way down the beach” situation, but Theodosia, three days into semi-captivity (she had been moved to a tent at Mulligan’s insistence) claims to not have one.

“They don’t let me in on everything that happens here. I’m a _scientist_. I don’t know _anything_ besides the fact that your plane crashed and some of you are, ‘needed’ by them.”  
Angelica responds, “And you still won’t tell us who _they_ are, will you?”  
“We don’t have a name.”

Maria is, frankly, sick of this. She’ll take the initiative and investigate it herself. Washington is advising against leaving— “We don’t need another Peggy situation,” he says— but that’s bullshit.

She thinks, for a little, about those who would want to get out of camp, and her mind instantly says “Angelica,” but that would mean dragging the other, less willing, Schuylers along, and after that, she’s stuck.

And then, she hears rapid French across the beach, and it dawns on her.    


She approaches the source— John and Lafayette, both laughing, and stands in front of them for two minutes before they notice her.

“Can I talk to Lafayette?”  
“Sure,” says John, after pausing for a second, and then he turns to Lafayette, “Au revoir.”

Lafayette waves as John walks away.

“Comm—“  
“I don’t speak French, so don’t try. I’m gonna go out, look at the whole “smoke mystery” shit, and I thought, ‘why not take the guy who hasn’t been outside in two years?’”  
“Three years.”  
“Whatever,” she says, “I need company.”  
“Washington won’t be happy.”  
“Okay, yeah, but,” she says, “ _Answers_. It’ll… satisfy a lot of people.”

He nods.

 

—

_February 12, 2011_

They stop in Los Angeles (“I think we’ll stay,” he says), because he has a friend who has a cousin who has a house with an extra room, and he thinks he can find work fast.

She finds a job first— she’s just waiting tables at some touristy restaurant, but it gets decent pay and makes her some people she can consider friends. (Her old best friend, Alicia, calls her and asks her if she’s okay, if she’s coming back soon every day, but she never picks up, never responds. She left everything behind for love, it doesn’t matter.)

James gets shittier to her as they start settling, because of course he does, but she tries to ignore it, because of course she does. She’s damn good at ignoring things, these days. Phone calls, people, the bruises on her arms, the source of them. It’s normal. She’s doing _fine._ He comes back drunk most nights, some nights not even at all, arriving the next morning hungover with some other girl’s perfume all over him, and she ignores it. She can make it, nobody else needs to know. And it’s not like she doesn’t cheat— there are people she runs into at night, in the club her coworkers drag her into sometimes, and she has her fun with them. James caught her once and got mad, but it was just once, out of many. And she starts seeing a girl, engaged, closeted, and going home with her sometimes. Her fiancé is okay with it, she says, they won’t ever actually get married. The woman never finds out about James.

No one needs to know about James.

 

—

  _September 15, 2015_

Lafayette doesn’t know why he agreed to join in on Maria Lewis-Reynolds’ little “adventure,” but she’s decent company, and he can’t say he hasn’t wanted to get out for the past few years.

“Do you even know where we are going?” he can’t help but to ask, and she shrugs, which is not a great response, he doesn’t think.  
“The smoke was over this way last night.”  
“You tell anyone that we were leaving?”  
“Eliza?”  
“She seems nice.”  
“She is. Don’t think she likes me, much, though, people in that family worry ‘bout each other.”  
“And you are…”  
“Fucking her sister, yes.”  
“Charming use of the English Language.”  
“As if you and John are politer in French.”  
“C'est juste.”

He remembers the spot of the beach he’s on— he can see the parts of the boat that didn’t blow up, if he looks close enough, he can remember the look on Adrienne’s face when she realized they had survived—

He does not need this. He realizes he has stopped, and that Maria is looking at him.

“What’s up?”  
He shakes his head, “Not important. I was here, three years ago.”

“Do you wanna get out? I get it if it’s fuckin’ with your head—“  
“It’s alright.”  
“You sure? ‘Cuz we’ll get there faster running anyways.”

She smiles at him. Her eyes are softer than they usually seem, like she understands something.

“Come on,” she says, and she grabs his hand and he runs alongside her. He is relieved.

 

—

_ January 8, 2012 _

It’s Adrienne that proposes the trip to the team— and to him, she describes it as sort of like a romantic getaway, but to the middle of the ocean with four coworkers on a tiny boat, doing scientific research on electromagnetic anomalies, because SkyTech offered her a grant. A huge grant. (He doesn’t often thank his family, but he does appreciate the connections their existence allows him and Adrienne and their team.)  


The owner of SkyTech, an American, has a party, and has invites them to the States to meet him before the trip. And the party is fun— lots of fancy, rich Americans and a few English people, mostly new money, all of whom are either drunk off their asses or half asleep. Not really Adrienne’s kind of crowd, but Lafayette has a good time, arguing about international politics, drinking, joking around. He’s always been the more social, in their partnership, and they’re both okay with it.

The company’s owner thanks them for agreeing to help out, saying that it’s of the utmost importance to study this, or else, and he trails off. It’s strange, Lafayette decides, but he doesn’t need to know everything about consequences— a friend of his once said he lived in the moment. Not the best quality for a physicist, but among the best for company.

And he’s a damn good physicist anyways, personality notwithstanding. 

He takes the job happily, Adrienne by his side, and it’s going to be wonderful. They postpone their wedding for another year— work comes first, they know, and it only really matters to them that they’re together, anyway.

 

—

  _September 15, 2015_

Maria _gets_ bad memories, but she can’t even imagine the kind that the guy next to her gets— she hasn’t had the best life, necessarily, but three years alone in a bunker with no sleep on this rock would kill her. She’s resilient, but not _that much_.

(Good thing that rescue was probably coming. Probably. Laurens and the Schuylers both have ridiculously rich families, they’ll find this place.)

So she protects Lafayette, best as she can, and messes around with him and runs with him. He smiles at her. She hopes she’s making him feel a little better. She wants to be good to people, she really does. And they are getting places faster. 

(She’s starting to doubt Eliza’s ability to lie on their behalf, say that they’re “out hunting,” because Eliza had a meat craving but sprained her ankle yesterday, so they’d best get back ASAP.)

Maria sees smoke, again, at sunset, because Lafayette points at in and yells in French about it, because he’s always yelling in French, so she runs faster. He jogs behind her, leaping to catch up. He definitely leaps a lot— it’s probably a French thing, leaping.

And she sees the source of the smoke, and she almost jumps— it’s a fire pit, just like their own, but a little more roughly constructed, and there are a few scraps of metal shaped into shelter a few yards back. There’s no people in sight—  
  
“Theodosia Bartow’s people, perhaps?” Lafayette asks— he’s caught up, still sort of hopping in place by her side.  
“Nah, they got scientists and… nice clothes and shit. She isn’t starving.”  
“That is true,” he says, “Very true.”  
“Another crash?”  
“How would I know?”  
“You’d feel, like, an earthquake or something, even down there?”  
“Eh. Not to my memory.”

Things go dark, for a second, and Maria feels herself hit the ground.

 

—

_August 12, 2015_  

The vacation to Australia is her chance to escape. Her friends say that she needs to get out of this right now, immediately, and she says she understands, but she— she can’t. He’d find her. He’s told her he can, and even though it’s illogical that he could, she’s still afraid, dammit. And he’s not always bad, he’s great, sometimes. 

(Erin, who has the same shift as her at the bar she’s worked at lately, has a cousin in Australia, she mentioned one day; go to her house, and let Jay think you’re missing, she told Maria. I’ll call her, tell her about your situation, she said.

“Don’t,” Maria said in response, “I can handle it myself.”  
“And you’re not gonna file for—“  
“If I could afford a divorce, you think I’d be working here?”  
“You can afford a trip to Australia.”  
“That’s him.”)

She doesn’t escape in Australia, though. In fact, she stays by his side more than she does in the States. Nothing happens between them, for that week, because hotel walls are thin and he’s been getting more cautious, lately, doesn’t want people getting suspicious.

Somehow, this is worse, the paranoia he’ll do something while she knows full well she has an escape that she won’t take.

She’s relieved when they’re on the plane and he runs off to the bathroom— he drank through the minibar, last night, he’s sick as all hell. She has at least ten minutes to herself.

And the guy across from her is sweet, anyways.

 

—

_September 15, 2015_  

Lafayette wakes up before Maria does, and he notes that he is, once again, trapped underground, although he can see the sky. It’s later than it was, much later, the sky is dark. He’s in a pit, with a crudely constructed grate overtop— he could probably climb out, were he not so dizzy. He feels a cut on his forehead— did whoever was holding them captive hit him with a rock? Probably.

He hears arguing above him, sees feet on the edge of the grate.

“I swear I know her, she was on our plane, I can guarantee— look on her finger, that’s our—“  
“When they wake up.”  
“Motherfucker! I can’t wait for tha— the tall one’s up.”

Lafayette closes his eyes, but he sees stars. He sees stars with them open too, but they’re less pronounced then. He’s concussed. Can’t focus on the next few sentences that the people above him exchange.

“Who are you?” one of them finally asks, and at the direct attention to him, Lafayette gets back into focus.  
“My name is— is— really quite long. Lafayette,” and he lies, “I was on— uh— Oceanic— I forget the flight number—“  
“Liar. You’d remember,” snaps one of the men.  
“You hit my head with a _rock,_ ” is a good enough excuse, he assumes.

Maria groans next to him. She whispers out a “What,” and then opens her eyes.

“We’re being held captive,” he informs her, because he might as well.  
“Great,” she says, and then, upon looking up, “Oh, how they’ve rendered us _helpless,_ with these… bamboo sticks that aren’t even attached. Get a _brain,_ Frenchie, aren’t you a scientist?”  
“Maria,” says one of the men, “Mary, you good?”

Maria squeaks, grabs Lafayette’s hand, and, although he does not understand, he holds it back tightly.

 

—

_ June 8, 2015 _

The explosion flashes by.

There’s blood, for one, that’s the first thing he remembers upon waking up, and metal lodged in his arm, the taste of saltwater and sand in his mouth. He hears Pierre screaming, only a few meters behind him, and he sees stars.

Adrienne is shaking him, he hears her voice but can’t tell what words she’s saying. But he opens his eyes, sees her face, she’s crying, smiling at him. There’s a cut down her lip, but her smile still brings him up, he’s _alive._

He’s alive.

He’s alive.

 

—

  _September 15, 2015_

“Your plane split in two,” Theodosia says, out of the blue, to Angelica, “I saw it crashing.”  
“That’s fascinating.”  
“I have a theory about the smoke, that is to say.”  
“A theory, really?”

Theodosia smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] adrienne de lafayette is the love of my life and i'm very sorry i killed her for the sake of this fic.  
> [2] ENTER THE TAILIES. EARLY ON. BECAUSE I LIKE TO RUSH THINGS.  
> [3] maria's coworker is named erin, in an annoying reference to the fact that burr was maria's divorce lawyer.  
> [4] haha i'm not foreshadowing another lost plot i plan to implement later in this story! what would that even mean haha  
> [5] i have this fic planned through about month two on the island, and to about season four in terms of lost's storyline, which i'm still following like, half the skeleton of. still working on narrowing down who the o6 should be, though.  
> [6] i speak next to no french. my sincerest apologies.
> 
> please leave comments, i am desperate for attention at all times always.  
> if you wanna talk otherwise, i'm on twitter @farmerefuted and tumblr @oceanicairline!


	12. confirmed dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which we take philip schuyler (the man is loaded!) on a quest to help discover something, angelica goes through some rough emotions, eliza is afraid of conflict, and our survivors meet their co-survivors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so first and foremost. seeing the show definitely changed, at least a little bit, how i interpret these characters/their dynamics.  
> and DAMN what a show it was! holy shit! someone yell with me about staging. someone yell with me about hurricane. oh my god.  
> um. so. warnings of infidelity, implications of abuse, thomas jefferson having actual fucking dialogue, plus mentions of death and sex.  
> also. we're going off island for parts of this chapter. and into the future.  
> this is so badly written please kill me i have not slept in a week but hey! i'm on break now! i have an excuse!  
> lost episodes that influenced this one! i gotta start doing this for chapters: confirmed dead, tabula rasa (or any episode with a happy musical interlude scene at the end tbh), one of us, and collision.

_ September 24, 2015 _

Twenty-two days after the international media lost its collective shit over the disappearance of a plane over the Pacific, a small biotech firm (known best in the news for being involved in the missing person case of a British doctor three years beforehand,) claimed to have found the plane at the bottom of the ocean, with the bodies of its passengers still inside of it, while running an environmental impact test near Hawaii. Its new C.E.O., a rather young man with a super-posh British accent, named George King, released a statement on the subject, which is so full of bullshit (strangely whimsical in word choice, too, lots of ‘wow’s and ‘I’m so _sad_ ’s,) that it makes Martha Manning feel sick when she hears it on the radio on her drive back home from work. She can’t bring herself to look at the manifest— her mother had already called her, telling her about John, the day the crash happened, the day she got word of it, but Martha can’t take the confirmation of that fact, not today. 

Then, a man called Monroe shows up at her door an hour after she gets home, says he has work that might appeal to her. You do, of course, Miss Manning, remember your childhood? And you have, of course, heard of the plane being found?

And you have, of course, your doubts about the validity of Mittelos’ claims?

She nods to each of these questions. 

“Here’s my card,” he says, and shoves it across her kitchen counter, “I’ll call later with details.”

 

—

  _September 15, 2015_

Thirteen days after the aforementioned missing plane crashed on an island, however, Elizabeth Schuyler was the one losing her shit— because not only did Maria Lewis-Reynolds leave her to lie on her behalf while she went off on some quest that she was being weirdly vague about, but when Maria came back, close to midnight, she brought _guests_ , therefore shattering any trust everyone else had in Eliza, who had been exposed just now as a liar. 

Maria didn’t look happy about the guests herself, two men, two women, who introduce themselves as “James, Sandy, John, and Abigail,” and one of them saying clarifying. James is gripping Maria’s hand tightly, shooting deathly glares at Lafayette, who is otherwise conversing happily with the woman named Sandy. Maria’s free hand is balled up into a fist, and she won’t speak, she just keeps looking at the ground. It’s almost as if she’s scared— her posture’s not its usual Perfect-Without-Trying, she’s sort of shaking. It makes Eliza nervous, as little as she trusts the other woman.

Alexander whispers, “must be the other side of the plane,” as soon as Angelica comes over, Theodosia Bartow in tow, both saying the same thing. John, the new John (“Just call me Adams, if it’s… confusing,” he says, shaking James Madison’s hand familiarly, but looking to everyone else,) confirms it, although Abigail (his wife, he clarifies,) tells him to be quiet, they could be the people who _killed_ Rob, John.

“Fair,” says Angelica, shooting a glare at Theodosia, “But we aren’t. With the exception of Theodosia here.”  
“I’m firmly anti-killing anyone,” says Theodosia.  
“But you _aren’t_ anti-leaving the person you kidnapped to get eaten by a bear in the middle of the jungle,” Peggy deadpans, pursing their lips.  
“And Eliza here isn’t anti-lying to us,” says Burr, and Eliza feels a pang of guilt.  
Mulligan adds a, “Laf, I got worried—“  
“You worry too much,” says Lafayette, “And _shut up,_ Burr.”  
“S’true,” adds Alexander, “Burr, Washington would’ve gotten so pissed, he’s so uptight about the rules he establishes, even the, I gotta say, really fucking pointless ones.”  
“Where is he?” Maria finally says, quieter than usual. Eliza tries to not be worried.  
“Hatch with Lady Washington,” says Jefferson, raising his eyebrows, “Doing as God intended us to do on a deserted island.”  
“Not-deserted island,” says Alexander, looking for a fight to pick.   
Jefferson dismisses him with a wave of the hand, and a “Technicalities. And he’s comin’ out soon anyways, Lizzy Wheatley and Jay went in an _hour_ ago,” he turns to the crowd, “So, brace yourselves, all y’all.”

Washington, as if on cue, walks out of the jungle, Martha in tow, and Alex backs away from Jefferson, who he had approached, as if ready to argue about something as petty as this. Eliza realizes just how small he is, and the only word she can think of is “cute,” which is a super mistimed thought.

“What is the _meaning_ of this?” asks Washington, shocked at the new visitors.

Lafayette steps forward and says, a little too loudly, “It is a long story.”

 

—

  _September 25, 2015_  

Pierre texts Frederick the updates for all twenty-three days after it crashes before the plane is found— the situation is of particular interest to him, Pierre says, and with a “i miss you” winky emoji right after each one. The day that it is found, (signified by Pierre with all-caps and approximately twenty exclamation points, with the usual, misplaced signature of a wink face at the end,) Frederick finishes his drink, and asks the bartender to put on the news. She refuses, says the rest of the place wants this horrible show about cars that’s already on. Which Frederick cannot believe to be true. So he searches it instead, and there it is— it’s been _found,_ which it can’t have been. Schuyler (rather, Frederick’s translator speaking for Schuyler) had told him that it had not, at the vigil for George and Martha, (but perhaps it was worry for his children, that convinced him. Still, Schuyler said he had proof—) No. The crash had to be real. The remains couldn’t have been fakes so elaborately, so quickly.

He goes over to Pierre’s house, and forgets about the situation almost entirely, surprised to get another text about it a week later, from none other than Phillip Schuyler.

“Do you still know how to fly a helicopter? PS” he reads, and gets the gist of it from Google Translate. 

He responds with a“Ja,” and and a few question marks. 

 

—

  _September 15, 2015_

See, George doesn’t trust strangers easily, but he knows Abby— they went to college together, they were friends. He knows that she was in Sydney around the same time because of Facebook, it makes sense that she would be on the same flight. And Maria knows the man named James— (Alexander says he thinks the man is her husband, that he sat next to the two of them on the plane. She doesn’t seem to be happy with him, making fleeting eye contact with Angelica and Alexander, the former looking back in confusion.) And Lafayette trusts the rest of them. Lafayette is the kind of person who seems to have faith in only the right people, George thinks. Abby walks up to him and starts asking questions— how have you _been,_ where did you get food and supplies, etcetera. He answers them vaguely as he can, not sure how much he can give away to anyone, lately. She signals to those with her that George’s group is safe— thank God, he knows, because whenever Abby showed anyone the slightest bit of distaste, back in the day, they would be ruined. 

Abby’s husband, John Something, remarks upon the fact that Angelica looks familiar, and when she clarifies, Lafayette seems to jump—

“You’re a _Schuyler_? That’s how I recognized you!”  
“We’ll discuss later,” she says, “Who’re you, James?”  
“Ang—“ says Maria, but James cuts her off.  
“I’m her husband,” he says, possessively— Alexander’s words are confirmed.  
“Oh,” says Angelica, reaching for Eliza’s hand.

Abby says to her group, ignoring the situation at hand, “Best we settle down, I think.”

The crowd disperses. 

 

—

   _September 25, 2015_

Ben is sleeping, and completely hungover when he gets the call, so he wakes with a migraine up to fifteen voicemails from his old chess partner, all with varying degrees of worry in his voice.

“Benjamin, I need you to call me back instantly, if you’ve heard the news—“  
“Benjamin, It is six P.M., so don’t you dare say you were busy, pick _up,_ dammit.”  
“Doctor _Franklin,_ it’s on the subject of my _children_ —“  
“Flight eight-one-five was found in the south Pacific, George was on it—“  
“Mittelos found it, those damned frauds—“  
And so on and so forth. Benjamin shoots back a text, “My Apologies, I was Asleep, watching News at the present moment, and I am Horrified to learn of your loss, What do you need?”

Only thirty seconds later, he receives a text saying “I need you to come over ASAP planning a trip,” and then a “That’s not the plane,” and then a “I have PROOF.”

Ben brews himself some tea and drinks it as slowly as possible. He’s had some batshit conspiracy theories in his life, so he knows when an idea is absolutely that. Poor Phil must be struck with grief right now, of course he’s planning to investigate himself—

Of course, he packs up his bags and goes to visit him anyways. Might as well console the poor man.

 

—

   _September 15, 2015_

“It doesn’t matter,” says Angelica, back in the tent she shares with the rest of the family, and Eliza knows she’s lying, “It was just a fling.”  
“Ang, tell the truth,” says Peggy, grasping around in the dark for one of the scarves Angelica had salvaged from her bag, and then “Eliza, can you get off your ass for one second?”  
She laughs, “Jesus, Pegs, be _polite_. And Angelica, if it helps— she doesn’t seem happy to be with him.”  
“Or she was nervous to see me.”  
“I get bad vibes off him, okay?”  
Angelica gets a look on her face, like she’s about to say “ _And I got bad vibes off of_ him _, but did you listen to me?”_ But she doesn’t say that, and Eliza is relieved.  
“I just feel so… _betrayed_ right now. You get me?”  
“I know,” says Eliza, “I know.”  
“You deserve better,” says Peggy.

Eliza gets a lot of gut feelings, most of which are right, she thinks. She has one right now, especially, that this is not what Maria intended— she _knows this,_ she gets how people work. She’s seen bad relationships firsthand, she knows the look that was in Maria’s eyes.

“I’d just… keep my hopes up,” she says, “That there’s a misunderstanding?”  
“Girl used her to cheat, Liz,” says Peggy, “Not really room for misunderstanding there.” 

There’s an unspoken _“You should know,”_ there. 

“She thought he was dead.”  
“And so she moves on to fucking the first person she sees? Don’t normal people fuckin’… mourn?”  
“We were all out of it that first week. Peggy, maybe it’s how she coped.”

There’s a tension, between the three of them, that none of them are willing to address.

Eliza decides she’ll avoid them tomorrow. Let the situation diffuse itself. She’s never been one for conflict.

 

—

  _September 16, 2015_  

“Fourteen days!” says Mulligan, a little too cheery, definitely too loud, the next morning. Angelica groans, not only from being awake, but from remembering that she might have to interact with any given human on this island, today.

“I thought twenty-one,” says Sandy, “Y’all been keeping track?”  
“Alex found a day planner in one of the bags that wasn’t completely destroyed,” says a girl named Catherine, laughing. 

It’s almost a sweet scene, that morning. Eliza sits with Philip, John, and Alex, and they laugh, and they’re— happier than Angelica has seen her sister in awhile, even before the crash. She tries not to be jealous— she can’t be jealous of Eliza. It’s not fair to any of them. Mulligan and Lafayette are messing with Burr about his “little… how-do-you-say _fling_ for our dear Theodosia,” which is, according to Burr “an entirely baseless accusation. Please leave.” Angelica lets herself smile at that. There’s smiles all around— Maria isn’t in sight. 

Angelica is almost relieved.

Theodosia sits alone. Angelica joins her, for reasons she can’t even bring herself to explain.

“Rough night?” asks the older woman.  
Angelica nods, “Yeah.”  
“Sorry for that. Can you grab my bag? It’s closer to you than me, I’m feeling lazy.”  
Angelica picks it up— a mustard yellow knapsack, dirty and ripped in some places— and tosses it to Theodosia, who pulls out a little pill case. She pops two pills in her mouth, and puts the case back.  
“I’m sorry that we had to meet like this,” Bartow says, smiling at Angelica.  
“Yeah, me too.”  
“I know you’re just worried about your siblings. I get that. But I want to start over.”  
“Maybe when we get rescued… We can talk. We can change things.”  
“I look forward to it. I bet they’ll find you all soon.”  
“I hope so.”

Angelica smiles back.  


 

—

  _September 16, 2015_   

“She’s with them,” says André, solemn, “We’ve been betrayed. _And_ they’ve found the rest of their… people. Shall I tell Mark, or—“  
“He’ll want to see for himself. Let’s let her think she’s safe for awhile. Do tell him to put out the press release we planned, though— and to make sure that the receipts from the… donor… are covered.”  
“Of course.”  
“Thank you, André,” he says, and he pauses for a solid thirty seconds before he speaks again. The man next to him does not move, “We couldn’t do this without you.”

The news goes viral in hours.

 

\--

Lafayette and Hercules end up spending their day together, which is entirely sensical. Hercules was the first of them that Lafayette properly met, and Lafayette knows that he used to exude a particular charm that draws people to him.

Hercules is crass, and Lafayette loves it— others refuse to make jokes, near him, he notices, or do so too rarely, but Hercules— Hercules is non-stop with the kindness, with the jokes. It’s wonderful. Big motions, telling stories, always trying to make Lafayette smile. It’s sweet of him.

“Why you always squinting?” Hercules asks him, during one quiet lull—  
“My glasses broke when my boat exploded. I’ve had a headache for three-and-a-half years.”  
“A tragic loss, and a godawful situation. I pity you.”  
“Did your glasses survive an airplane crash? Or do you wear…”  
“20-20, bitch.”  
“How dare you,” he presses his hand to his heart.  
“Not my fault I’m flawless. Fuckin’ Alex has been complaining non-stop to me about broken glasses, complain to him.”  
“He’s off copulating with our dear Laurens.”  
“Of course.”  
“Y’know,” he says, “I’m glad I met you.”  
“Fucked up that it’s through a plane crash, though.”  
“Perhaps it was fate.”  
“Yeah, maybe.”

—

“So,” says Eliza, to John and Alex, who she has, (and not annoyingly so, John notes,) stuck to like glue all the day, “I realized something weird. We never, y’know, talk about why we were in Australia in the first place. Like, we know a lot about each other, but not things we... should know? You know?”  
Alex looks at her, like he hasn’t even thought of it (and John knows that Alex is very used to being the first one to think of anything,) and then says, “Good prompt, I’d almost forgotten. That happen to you two?

Philip has run off to bother Burr, who, in John’s opinion, might deserve a break from the constant nuisances, but hey, it’s Burr.

“My answer’s very… Dramatic Backstory-y. As a warning. Not that I won’t stop telling it if it’s too much for you two.”  
“Ooh, Alex’s superhero origin,” says Eliza, laughing.  
“What’s his power?” asks John.  
She purses her lips, says, “Tenacity.”  
“Not really a superpower.”  
“Yeah, I was going for more compliment-slash-criticism-at-once.”  
“Can I please answer your original question?” Alex asks.  
Eliza rolls her eyes, “Of course, dear.”

Alex inhales.

“My dad left when Philip was born, I was… and don't tell Philip, I told him it was a vacation... looking for him. My dad. I wrote to him a lot, the ever responded, but sometimes, his, uh, business partner did.He kept bounding around the southern hemisphere, I heard, so I, um. Might have internet stalked him to at least Australia-New-Zealand, so I decided, hey, Sydney's a reasonable guess, I have a college friend there, and it's the easiest to get flights to, my old tutor was willing to chip in some cash to let that kid have some fun, so, um. Bam. Ended up here after most definitely not finding my father.”

There’s a pause, because Eliza is clearly not sure how to react, probably, and because John was not expecting… that, definitely. That is, in his opinion, uncomfortably familiar.

“Hah,” John says, uncomfortably, to fill in the gap, and then, as if possessed, “So we were in Australia for similar reasons, then.”

Alex tilts his head, says, “I’m sorry, what?”

“I was, uh, looking for my birth mother, for a while. Found out she left P.R, moved to Sydney. So, obviously, gotta look into that shit. I got an aunt, who sends money, still, after everything, still got a fraction of that Laurens family fortune, so, there we have it, Australia trip..”

“You’re Puerto Rican?” asks Eliza, genuinely curious.  
“Um,” says John, and doesn't know how to answer, because yes, but also, he can't be as proud of it as Alex is, he can't, because, “Never really lived on the island. I’m, uh, adopted.”  
“Oh. Still."   
“Yeah, I feel you. I’m oversharing. Shit.”  
“S’cool.”   
“Adopted-buddies?" says Eliza, smile uncomfortable, gingerly offering a fist-bump, "This is weird of me.”

He agrees, but takes the fist-bump anyway.

“We were there for vacation. Ang bought us tickets, said it was to celebrate me and Peggy for graduating college and high school respectively, but, like, I think she just wanted an excuse to take a week off work. Which. Same, but. Yeah. So my trip wasn’t really a big self-discovery thing, unfortunately.”  
“Fortunately, actually,” chimes John, “You probably had more fun than me.”  
“And definitely more than me,” Alex laughs.

Eliza’s sweet, John decides. He really does like her.

Alex seems to, as well.

—

Aaron could really, honestly go for a massage right now. He’s never had one, but he feels he could use one at this very moment. It’s been a rough day. Well, rough month. Everyone could say that.

Maria, it seems, would agree. She’s escaped her husband, however briefly, and sat herself next to Aaron, whose back is currently home to a very tired eleven year old.

“You good?” he asks her, out of politeness.  
“Angelica hates me.”

He doesn’t respond to that.

“James is fucking back, just when I thought I never’d have to be around his shitty ass ever again, why’d I let him marry me?”  
“We all,” he notes the child on his back, “…Mess up when we’re kids.”  
“We’re the same fuckin’ age. Don’t patronize me.”  
“Not trying to. Language.”  
“Well,” her voice cracks, “You did.”

She puts her head down to her knees, balls up.

“Hey,” he says, awkwardly offering his arm to wrap around her shoulder. He’s horrible at being comforting, frankly, horrible at displaying emotional, Rob once called him “RoboBurr2000,” which, while terribly unoriginal, was a fair summation.  
“He’s awful.”  
“I could guess.”  
“Condescending.”  
“Him or me?”  
“You. Actually. Both of you. And he’s— he got away with this shit before, cuz he fucking convinced me he was the only one who’d ever—“  
“You don’t need to finish, because we both know it’s untrue. Also, language.”  
“I know all the curses,” Philip, half-awake, says, “Can’t you divorce ‘im?”  
“Not on this island, baby,” says Maria, softening.  
“Like, beforehand.”  
“No, no, he wouldn’t have let me. And it takes money.”  
“Sucks,” says the kid, who proceeds to slip off Burr’s shoulders and hobble back to his brother, who is, apparently, making out with one of the two indistinct shadows around him.  
“When we get off of here,” Burr says, in a move even he doesn’t predict from himself, “I’ll help you.”  
“You don’t need to.”  
“I want to. I’m a trust fund baby, I can pay your legal fees. Trust me.” (Why are these words coming out of his mouth?)  
“Um,” says Maria, “Thanks.”  
“It’s no problem,” (at least, not for Maria.)

She rests her head on his shoulders. It’s no massage, but it’ll do, he guesses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bllllargh let's get some notes out:
> 
> [1] lizzy wheatley is phillis wheatley! the first black american female published poet, and a total badass, absolute. there will definitely be more of her later. i love her.  
> [2] so our tailies, for those confused! are: john adams, abigail adams, elizabeth sanders (mulligan,) and the obvious james reynolds.  
> [3] holy shit in musical canon lafayette hates burr so much. i am going to have so much fun with this.  
> [4] VON STEUBEN! FRANKLIN! MARTHA MANNING! here we have the beginnings of our science team!  
> [5] i'm working on dreamcasting half these non-musical characters but for now: theodosia is a slightly older jamie clayton, abigail is tracee ellis ross, martha manning is vienna teng, kitty livingston (who is vaguely mentioned in this chapter, and will be in more later,) is gabourey sidibe, and phillis is janelle monaé. if you have ideas 4 casting, please comment!  
> [6] the last three little scenes were originally a standalone chapter, but also. that seemed weird so i edited it.
> 
> also please comment in general because i am literally tinkerbell but instead of clapping i need comments. thanks.
> 
> check me out on tumblr (oceanicairline) and twitter (@farmerefuted)!


	13. everybody hates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which eliza sustains a minor injury, burr talks about himself, and theodosia is confronted with some uncomfortable information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well hello!
> 
> so. this chapter's fun, but it's a little weird. burr and eliza! woo!
> 
> some prior notes: lost mythology is weird, this chapter is very inspired by season 2 as a whole, and especially the centric episodes of hugo "hurley" reyes, aka the only character in lost who matters. this chapter is trying to be at least a little comedic, but it's got a lot of death talk so. comment if you want a tl;dr i guess. 
> 
> other than death, warnings for: rough descriptions of death in large amounts, mentions of giving birth, injury, and medicine. also. have some suspension of disbelief, here, for me.

_ September 17, 2015 _

“Dammit!” Aaron says, kicking sand, and Maria is laughing at him, keeled over, holding her stomach for emphasis.  
“You just fanboyed over,” Maria pauses for breath, “A motherfucking _U.S. senator._ ”  
“Fanboyed? Is that the word you’re going with?”  
“Probably not the best one?” she shrugs, “But holy shit. Ooh, Senator Madison, how I do admire your emulation of… what was it, _Arztian principles_ , so—“  
“He really does, though!”  
“Wasn’t Arzt a founding father or some shit?”  
“Fourth president.”  
“No need to be so defensive, damn,” she laughs again, and then pauses, “Fuck. Husband’s awake.”  
“Have fun.”  
“You have fun fantasizing about Madison.”  
“I will, actually.”

Burr’s working on reaching out more, lately, at Alex’s insistence. (“At least _try_ to be a normal human with a sense of humor and be _mildly_ sociable, and _then_ people will maybe stop being assholes to you,” he had said, rudely, with no prompting, because of course he did). So of course he reached out to Madison, who he was a fan of, goddammit. Non-partisan senator with respect on both sides of the aisle, unwilling to be tokenized— that was Burr’s dream, there. His overly idealistic, horrible dream, but _still._ Plus, the senator had the same alma mater as Burr. Always a plus. 

And Burr, being himself, had utterly embarrassed himself.

But that’s apparently not the most pressing matter that day, (“Twenty-four!” Mulligan had shouted that morning,) because Eliza, who was supposed to be on hatch duty, comes out of the jungle, looking ill, and says, simply, “John needs a partner,”  
Angelica runs up to embrace her, then says, “Oh God, are you alright?”  
“Fine, Ang, just cut my arm,” (and that explains the massive patch of something red on the sleeve of her hoodie,) “Pretty badly on something down there. John freaked, wrapped it up, and told me to rest.”  
“Future doctor,” says Peggy, rolling her eyes.

Burr volunteers to go in her place— he likes the quiet, John seems like he’s okay.

Anyways, he knows those numbers too well to not put them to use.

 

—

_December 25, 2005_

His uncle, this year, decides he’ll let both of them get lottery tickets for Christmas— the kind you pick numbers out for, there’s a massive jackpot, right now. Aaron is twelve, thirteen in two months, but he’s still too short to see much over the counter without standing on his tip-toes. Sally, who is going by Sarah lately, makes fun of him for this, and picks out her lucky numbers. She smiles a big, shiny-with-braces smile at the goth woman on the other side of the counter.

Aaron doesn’t know what possesses him to give out his dead grandfather’s phone number, but he does, deciding how to separate the numbers as he goes— four, then eight, then fifteen, sixteen, twenty-three, and forty-two as the Magic Number. His uncle stares at him, eyebrows furrowed, as if to say “really?”

“Thanks,” he says when he’s done and then he runs to the bathroom for two minutes, so he can wash his face and avoid his uncle and Sally-slash-Sarah asking questions.

But they do ask questions, when he joins them in the parking lot, and all he says was “it was stuck in my head.”

After ten minutes of walking home in near silence, (it’s snowing, would have been a white Christmas if it were a day earlier,) Sally says, “What’re you gonna do if you win?”  
“Gonna go to college.”  
“Just ‘cuz you’re ahead of me doesn’t mean you’re gonna go to college yet.”  
“Nah, I am.”

Their uncle doesn’t say anything, just a sigh.

(He can’t handle having two kids on his hands, Aaron knows. Going to college would relieve his uncle.)

 

—

  _September 17, 2015_

Eliza does love being doted on, but she can admit this is a little overboard. “It’s just a cut,” she says, but Angelica and Alex both respond with, “But it’s deep as hell.” Mulligan makes a sex joke out of that, and Angelica doesn’t say it again when Eliza reiterated that it is _just a cut_ , but Alexander does, and he laughs. He seems far too worked up about this— he’s not related to her, he’s practically a stranger—

But he’s sweet. She appreciates the worry. He brings her all of his blankets, the painkillers he stole from Jefferson’s hoard, and 

Maria slips her the bottled water that she keeps hoarded in her tent, whispers a “thanks for not hating me,” and slips away before Angelica (or James, Eliza notices) can see her. 

“What’re they gonna do when someone dies, though?” asks Peggy, trying to lighten the mood when they’re left alone with her.  
“If,” says Eliza.  
“Nah, when. There are people out for us, there’s a goddamned monster in that jungle, probably, it’s inevitable.”  
“Nothing’s inevitable.”  
“Except for death. Back to my point.”  
“Ugh. You teens and your nihilism.”  
“That’s not nihilism.”  
“You get the point, Pegs.”

Peggy’s always been the easiest of her siblings to joke around with— she loves Angelica more than anything in her life, but she’s such a worrywart, when it comes to Eliza, and the rest are still too young to confide in. Peggy understands everything.  
  
“Hey,” says Peggy, “At least me and Lafayette aren’t alone in the trauma parade anymore.”  
“An arm injury does not get me added to the trauma parade.”  
“With the way Angie’s reacting.”  
“Shut up.”  
“Love you.”

 

—

_May 8, 2013_

“I’m naming her Angelica,” says Eliza, when Peggy visits her in the hospital, because they bought plane tickets home from school as soon as word got out that Eliza had gone into labor, apparently, “Because, number one, Ang deserves it, and number two, it is a truth universally acknowledged that Margarita is a terrible name. No offense.”  
“None taken. Kinda thankful I don’t have to use it anymore,” Peggy glances at the baby, tiny and asleep in Eliza’s arms, “She’s really cute. Like. I hate babies, but yours is too sweet to hate.”  
“She’s literally always screaming. She’s behaving for you, I guess. To persuade you from your baby-hating ways.”  
“Good.”

Angelica runs in four minutes later, a box of hot food in one hand and her cell phone in the other.

“Boyfriend wants to meet the baby,” she says, hurriedly, “Also I brought you a burger because I read that you need to eat a lot of protein after you give birth.”  
“Dad’s not visiting for another five hours,” sighs Eliza, “And thanks.”  
“Good, because J.C. is gonna be here in fifteen minutes.”  
“He’s so much older than you,” Eliza says, exhaustion bringing out too much bluntness, “Why do you bother?”  
“Because he’s sweet, darling,” she says, at the same time Peggy says, “Sugar daddy.”

Angelica glares, but doesn’t say anything.  


“So can either of you recap me on last week’s Scandal? Because I am a little too worried to pirate at school right now,” Peggy says, dodging the subject.  
“They won’t bust you,” says Eliza, “I promise. And the usual.”  
“Which usual?”  
“The usual that Kerry Washington is too gorgeous to focus on the plot. I don’t know, I was trying to write a paper.”  
“Truth,” says Angelica, the elder, “And why the hell are you still doing homework while nine months?”  
“I wanna graduate on time.”  
“Fair.”

Eliza feels awake for the first time in days, with them, with Peggy and Angelica. They work so well together.

She can’t imagine life without them.

 

—

  _September 17, 2015_

“Aaron Burr!” Laurens yells as soon as Burr walks into the room he’s in.

“John,” he nods, and says, “Eliza’s doing fine.”  
“That’s good, I just— I don’t want her suffering down _here_ , y’know?”  
“I get it.”

He’s blasting some oldies album on the record player and pacing around the room, and he says, “This is the kinda shit my dad made me listen to. Fuckin’ hate it.”

“So why are you listening to it?”  
“Haven’t heard actual recorded music in twenty four damn days.”  
“Fair.”

John sits around for awhile, rolls around in the chair next to the computer.

“Who invented these?”  
“Probably someone with too much time on their hands.”  
“A politician, then.”  
Burr laughs, says, “I wanna go into politics, actually.”  
“Don’t,” says John, “Whole system’s fucked. Trust me.”  
“Alright,” says Burr, because arguing with John, he imagines, would be like arguing with the sun, “Alright.”  
“So, besides politics,” says John, “What’s your story? You’re a fucking enigma.”  
“Your boyfriend put you up to this?”  
“I can be interested in your life story.”  
“Fair. Only remarkable thing about my childhood is Princeton at thirteen.”  
“Shit, man. That’s a little past remarkable.”  
“It’s not as uncommon as you’d think,” he usually avoids preening, but he can’t stop himself, now that Laurens is flattering, “Graduated at fifteen, though, that’s less common than the first part.”  
“Shit, dude.”

It’s quiet, for a while, just annoying brassy pop from the record player and the wheels of John’s chair squeaking.

The alarm goes off, and Aaron’s closer to the computer, so he types in his numbers. Like the back of his hand.

He does wonder, though, what would happen without them?

 

—

_December 26, 2005_

He wins the jackpot, it turns out. His uncle seems proud of him, Sarah-Sally seems confused and a little jealous, and his tutor gives him the go ahead on college apps, because now he can at least _start to pay._

Aaron’s never been a lucky kid. He feels, for once, like he is. He’s everyone’s favorite puff piece, for a week, Jersey Prodigy Wins Big.

And then, when a camera crew comes to his uncle’s house for an interview, his uncle, always in good health, has a stroke. At the wake, the casket catches on fire as soon as Aaron leaves its side. His current tutor’s wife is diagnosed with a terminal goddamned illness. A meteor destroys the gas station he bought the ticket from. All of this happens over the course of a month.

(But hey, he gets into Princeton.)

“It must be the ticket,” he says, to Sally, back to calling herself that, lately, Sally, who has been dealing with this situation better than Aaron, “Grandfather’s phone number, could be cursed.”  
“You saying the devil might have snuck his way into Grandfather’s life?”  
“It would be ironic,” admits Aaron, “But there’s gotta be some explanation behind this.”  
“Maybe you’re cursed? You weren’t sayin’ this when Ma died.”  
“I was six months old when Ma died. And it’s never been this concentrated, y’know?”  
“Aaron,” Sally says, scolding, “Think more— you’re running your mouth off. Anyways,” she flips her braids off of her shoulder, and tries to change the subject, “Can you help me with my history homework?”

 

—

  _September 17, 2015_

The attention on Eliza is diverted, come evening, because there’s an all-too familiar rumbling that comes from the jungle as soon as the sun sets. Theodosia braces herself, says, “Before you ask, I have no idea what it is. All I know is that if you hear it near you, run.”  
“We’re not leaving camp,” says Washington, firm in his beliefs.

“It’s not close, anyway,” says Theodosia, “They’re so vague, over there, it’s ridiculous.”  


Abby, the new woman, eyes Theodosia suspiciously, which is fair, Eliza knows.

“Did you know about us?” she asks.  
“A little. They were less concerned about your group than this one, for some reason, probably because you were the smaller group—“  
“Why’d you kill three of us?”  
“What?”  
“Second night we were here.”  
“I didn’t know about that, I swear,” she’s shaking her head, eyes wide.  
“British guy was in charge, little guy with a Scottish accent helped him out. There were a few others there too. Y’all had guns. Shot three of our people in cold blood, and tried to get more. It was horrifying. We had a kid with us, too, y’know. It’s why we started moving down the beach.”  
“Is Philip asleep?” Eliza asks, interrupting as loudly as she can.  
“Philip is very much _not_ asleep,” says Lafayette, with the aforementioned kid on his arm. Philip looks ill because of the conversation, curled up.  
“Okay, maybe we should wait until Philip is asleep to continue this… debate,” intones Eliza, looking nervously at Theodosia, who doesn’t listen.

She looks sick. There is more rumbling from the jungle.

“Whatever they did,” she says, “It wasn’t me. I didn’t even know—“  
“Scottish guy called English guy Mark. He told him to calm down, he was being too hard on us. You know him?” James Reynolds adds— His voice is harsh, Maria, standing in front of him, whispers a “ _Shut up_ ,” at him and he pushes past her.

Theodosia freezes, mouths, “ _No_ ,” and stares at everyone.

Eliza can’t help but feel for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notes:
> 
> [1] the album john is listening to is, as the lost fans among you may have guessed, a mama cass elliot album. the brassy pop is the eternal classic "make your own kind of music".  
> [2] yes i was up til three a.m. last night decided which lost dude fit each founding father best + rewriting the occasional historical event + couldn't think of a madison equivalent so i just wrote down Arzt. i have mild reasoning behind everything else in my founding au, i swear. ask me about it.  
> [3] if i won the lotto tomorrow well i know i wouldn't bother going on no sp  
> [4] this is a very lost-focused chapter. Yikes.  
> [5] i Love peggy schuyler,,
> 
> questions? comments? just wanna say hi? leave a comment, and/or hmu on twitter @farmerefuted and tumblr @oceanicairline


	14. sundown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the author apologizes for not updating in 20 years, a funeral is held, and alexander gets words stuck in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. um. hi.
> 
> i should have updated sooner, i know, i know. but also: m.a.l.! school! the west wing slowly taking over my life! 
> 
> so anyways! this chapter was originally going to be based off of the greatest (dark) comedy episode of a drama/sci-fi ever-- lost 3x14, exposé. instead, i made it sad. please mention if i fucked up the spanish: once again, terrible at grammar and really only familiar with peruvian dialects. also! meet james hamilton jr. where Did He Go.
> 
> anyways: fuck thomas jefferson.
> 
> warnings for death and the discussion of that, weird family relationships, rough spanish from yours truly, and thomas jefferson.

_September 18, 2015_   


Alex doesn’t sleep much, and island-living had not helped with this in the slightest. He hates the quiet, but the waves help enough with that. And Lafayette doesn’t sleep much either, so he has company. French conversations at four A.M. become a constant for him. And Lafayette, he’s learned, is similar to him— both speak French and Hebrew, they’re both used to bouncing around everywhere, both orphans, both, if Alex can flatter himself, ingenuitive and resilient as hell. In another universe, he swears they would have been soulmates.

(He swears he’s soulmates with a million people, in a million different universes.)

But today, their conversation (mostly on the hot topic of Theodosia Bartow versus Reynolds-Adamses-Sandy) is cut short around six A.M. by Angelica walking out of the jungle, breathing tired, heaving breaths.

“Help,” she says, loudly enough for Alexander and Lafayette to hear, but still quiet, somehow, and then she says, “I need you two in the jungle. ASAP. Not joking. Emergency.”  
“What’re you doing?” asks Alex, jogging up to Angelica, realizing that both of his legs are asleep. He considers hopping, to get rid of the feeling, but Angelica holds him in place.  
“Me, and— Hatch. Came back to get the next on the schedule and— You’ll see.”  
“You left your partner in there? Alone?” Lafayette sounds almost offended at the prospect.  
“Not in there. It’s empty now. When you can help him, I’ll go back in.”  
“Angelica,” Alex says, worried about her, and she looks him directly in the eyes, says, “We have to go,” with more determination in her voice than fear.

He still worries. Angelica worried means him worried, he’s realized, they’re at the same level, always. She’s another one of the million, he decides; he could love her.

He follows, of course.

 

—

_ December 18, 2011 _

  
He gets an email from Jaime two weeks before he leaves the Mulligans’ house. He’s printing out his Lit paper at the library, and he checks his inbox, the email Knox set up for him two years back, just because he can.

It’s brief. No information about how he is, or where he is, but a “estás bien?” and a “espero que te vea prontooo.” A “te vi en las noticias???”

Nothing about Philip. Nothing about St. Croix. Nothing about Ned, even, or about their father, or about anything at all, save him.

Alexander doesn’t respond. It’s not out of rudeness, he just— he usually has the words, but he doesn’t, he never will, with his brother. There was such a rift, and it’s no one’s fault but time’s, maybe God’s. Alexander doesn’t know. Jaime and he were different people, fundamentally, oil and water. It’s best to forget him, it’s best for both of them to forget each other. They’ll never see each other again, anyway. 

There’s an email from Ned, asking for a phone number and a time to grab coffee. He does respond to that— “How’s med school?” he asks, and “we definitely have to meet up, I’ll email you ASAP once I finish exams,” smiley face emoticon.

The woman at the computer next to him groans with frustration after he presses send— he offers to help her, in case the computer’s giving her troubles, but she tells him to “fuck off and quiet down,” and then, to herself, “why did I leave my laptop at home?”

There’s a poster on a notice board, an apartment being rented out dirt cheap. One slip of paper with a phone number left. He takes it, just in case.

He leaves the library, tries to keep Jaime off his mind. The sign-off repeats in his head, for some reason, bouncing back and forth on the corners of his brain, siempre siempre siempre. It’s meaningless, it’s just convention, politeness, but the word won’t stop repeating, it’s a broken record.

He’s not watching where he’s walking, and he runs into a huge crowd of teenage girls. Tourists. One asks him the way to a store he’s never heard of, and she’s holding the hand of a shorter kid. She’s sweet to him, apologizing before every sentence and smiling the whole time through. She doesn’t mind that he doesn’t know. She leaves with her little clique as soon as the conversation ends. Thanks him anyways, because “my sister here just realized she has a photo of the map saved.”

He wonders if Philip’s having an alright day at school. 

“You good?” Hercules asks when Alex arrives at the shop.  
“Feel like shit.”  
“Sorry. Gonna go out tonight, by the way, you up for it?”  
“I got—“  
“No school tomorrow.”  
“You have your job.”  
“I also got the American right to get shitfaced. Live. I am takin’ the initiative as your honorary wiser and older brother to let you, _Ham_ , have a good time.”

He calls the number from the poster the next morning. The woman on the other side, the owner, Andrea Something, is charmed by him, tells him to visit as soon as he can.

 

—

  _September 18, 2015_

Angelica drags him, Lafayette jogging behind them, about a quarter mile into the jungle. His legs are definitely awake, now, wobbly and tired. She gestures, at a point, to the ground, where’s Alex spots a shadow. He squints, and Lafayette jumps. 

It’s Jefferson, lying on the ground in the middle of the jungle. Alexander isn’t shocked by the sight, but Angelica is shaken. Lafayette gasps at the body, crouches down to investigate.

“There were,” says Angelica, hoarse, “Gunshots. I ran. Which I know I—”  
“Good,” says Lafayette, “You should have.”  
“Now he’s,” end of sentence.  
“But you’re not,” says Alex, “You’re okay. You’re okay.”  
“I could have helped him,” she says, “I didn’t do enough, I just ran—“  
“You did what was reasonable,” Lafayette sounds as if he’s about to cry, “This is. A lot.”

Angelica and Lafayette don’t know death as intimately as Alexander does, he knows. His legs are a little shaky, looking at the corpse, but it’s not shocking. Someone dying was inevitable, people died there first day here. People died in Abigail’s camp. It was bound to happen, Alex just hadn’t figured out when it would strike, yet.

“We should make a stretcher,” he says, “Carry him back to camp.”  
“I’m gonna go to the hatch,” says Angelica.  
“You don’t have to. We’ll get someone at camp.”  
“Thanks,” she says, “Thanks.”

 

—

_September 25, 2015_  

(Jaime gets word of available work on a boat, and signs up immediately. He interviews, informally, with some rich man from California, who says the mechanic job’s all his, and the boat leaves in a week. He thinks of emailing his brother— God, emailing his brother is like speaking to nothing, he doesn’t even know if the address is valid, but he hopes. He always hopes.

He meets a member of the crew, a girl named Manning who speaks almost-fluent Spanish to him, because the man who owns the boat tells him that she has an extra room, and is willing to take in a guest. He likes her, he decides, she’s sweet and lets him talk about himself. She tells him about the plane crash that’s been all over the news, how her friend John was on it. He mentions that he thinks his brothers were on it, but wasn’t sure, he never got called but he saw both names on the list. She says the boat is looking for survivors, he says he doubts there are any. She says she never read the list, she couldn’t bring herself to.

It makes it easier, she says. He doesn’t see how.)

 

—

_September 18, 2015_  

It’s eight A.M. when everyone’s up to see the body. John Jay and Hercules, the early risers, agree to man the hatch— they don’t know Jefferson well, don’t like funerals either.

Angelica doesn’t know why she defends Theodosia, when people blame her, but she does. She catches Maria’s husband ( _husband_ ,) glaring at her as she says it, though, which gives her a surge of pride.

(She doesn’t know why she’s so upset about Maria, still. Maybe it’s the lack of telling, that bothers her. But there are problems worse than this, now.)

Theodosia smiles at her. There’s a decision made for a funeral at sea— they don’t have shovels, they did it to the bodies on the first day, it’s procedure, now. Abigail says they never did anything to the bodies in their camp, quietly, that they didn’t know what to do, that the bodies disappeared in a few days, anyway.

“Does anyone have any words?”

James Madison says something too quiet for Angelica to hear. He’s expressionless. Liz Wheatley mentions that he’s the only person she’s ever met who read her anthology and talked to her about it, like, actually talked to her about it, even if he was otherwise, a pause, not the kindest or the most sensitive. Washington talks about the strength of his writing— that’s where Angelica knows his name from, he wrote _Declarations._ Won a Pulitzer. Who would’ve guessed.

He was from Virginia. He was a genius, Angelica knows. He was dead.

“He was a dick,” she hears Alexander whisper to her sister.

“He was, but shut up,” she says, “Respect the dead.”  
“Even the dead who call me, quote unquote, subhuman?”  
“He was a talented writer,” says Eliza.

“Sure. I’ll leave it at that, though.”

Eliza walks away from him, moves to Peggy, next to Burr, next to Maria, next to someone who is not Maria’s husband.

Washington and Madison walk out into the ocean. A body drifts away— he’s going, he’s gone.

It’s quiet, around. No one knows how to react, no one wants to know. Angelica pushes it away. She feels too much, all the time, she doesn’t need this extra weight. She hadn’t spoken much to him, but when she had, he was decent to her. They debated, once, she’d like to consider herself the victor.

After it’s over, and it’s less quiet, she talks to Liz Wheatley.

“I, uh, saw some of your poems online, before. You have a… gorgeous command of language. I didn’t want to bother you about it.”  
“Thanks, Angelica,” she says, eyes crinkled.  
“No, really, you’re really damned good. I wish I could write like that, I wish I could use words the way you do.”  
“You’re a writer, right?”  
“Seems like a lot of us were. I was a journalist.”  
  
They talk more. Liz is a few years older than her, a few years wiser. Angelica could listen to her voice, melodic and steady, forever. It helps.

 

—

  _September 18, 2015_

When the sun sets, it is still quiet. Alexander can’t focus on anything, can’t talk the way he wants to. He almost wants to cry, but he won’t. This isn’t worth crying over.

“I’ve never liked the quiet before,” says Alexander to Philip, who had been deadly silent since the funeral.  
“Am I gonna die?”  
He swallows, shifts his eyes, “Don’t think I’d let you.”  
“Are you?”  
“No,” he lies, because God knows he’s been waiting long enough.

There’s silence, after that, it spans a few minutes. Alexander focuses on breathing, the smell of the salt water, the color of the sky. He tries to think of the words for the color orange. Most are fruits, he realizes, starts thinking of a fruit metaphor for the sky. None match. Philip cuts him out of it.

“You said a name last night when I was almost asleep.”  
“I say a lot of names when you’re asleep.”  
“Almost asleep Theodosia said it too.”  
“It’s not relevant, whatever it was.”  
“I wanna—“  
“I don’t want to talk about it, okay? I don’t know what to— Here: if we get rescued, I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you everything. Everything everything. I’ll answer any question you have about me.”  
“I’m gonna remember that, y’know. And there’s not much you can hide from me.”  
“I know you will, and you’re definitely right.”

He remembers the word burnt, when he says that, for some reason. That’s the color.

It repeats in his head, a broken record.

Angelica sits with him and Lafayette, the next morning. None of them sleep at all. 

It rains, the next day. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notes:
> 
> [1] i hate thomas jefferson  
> [2] i can't write death. sorry about that.  
> [3] Spot The Really Bad ITH Reference!  
> [4] james hamilton jr was alexander's older brother who sort of. disappeared. we're calling him jaime in this fic.  
> [5] i'm rlly tired i wrote this chapter instead of doing my bio homework (WHICH I WOULD HAVE DONE YESTERDAY if i weren't in m.a.l. hell)  
> [6] i started a series of west wing au oneshots if that's yr kinda thing! there is one up so far, check it out.
> 
> questions, comments, just wanna say hi? comment! also! check me out on twitter @farmerefuted and tumblr @oceanicairline


	15. ?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> or: the author expresses their undying love for peggy schuyler, there is a throwaway line about eliza beatboxing, and how about that mythology!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lotsa warnings here:  
> -implications of abuse (everything w/ maria)  
> -implications of homophobia (segment beginning with "peggy's first kiss")  
> -children fighting (segment beginning with "eacker had it coming"  
> -unaware participation in experiments (the last two segments.)  
> -yeah. as usual, ask for a tldr if you can't handle it, but. yeah.
> 
> thanks for sticking with this fic, we have our first sort of. season finale coming up, so. watch out.
> 
> um. just as a note-- there's a segment in this chapter taken out of an episode of lost-- the same one this chapter is titled for. i don't own it, it's just difficult to phrase in any other way than the show did.
> 
> yeah so enjoy!

_September 21, 2015_

“It’s been almost a month,” says Peggy, more to themself than anyone, “Halloween’s coming up, damn.”  
“We gonna go trick-or-treating at Theo’s place?” asks Hercules, snorting.  
“Only if you make costumes.”

Not much has happened, lately, just silence and fear, slowly building itself up in everybody, about to explode in some of them.

“I’m going on a hike,” Lafayette proclaims to the two of them, “Either of you want to join? John, Theo, and Maria have already agreed to.”  
“Which John?” asks Peggy, because Adams’ voice grates on them.  
“Laurens. Obviously.”  
“I’ll go,” says Hercules, and Lafayette pulls him up from the ground.  
“Why the hell not?” asks Peggy.  
“You gonna tell your sisters?”  
“If they see me, I’ll tell them to be proud of me for ‘coming out of my shell,’ or some shit. Angelica's been avoiding most people since... Jefferson, and Eliza's busy in Hamilton-land.”

Maria gives a shy smile as Peggy approaches, and Peggy doesn’t respond. They’re not sure how to feel about Maria, anymore, because after one conversation with James, they can one hundred percent see reason to cheat on him. And the way Maria acts around him— it’s suspicious. But she hurt Angelica.

That takes priority, Peggy knows.

But they can still be polite. Eliza certainly has been, why can’t Peggy?

They shift to the end of the crowd, though, closer to John and Hercules than Maria, because it still feels a little wrong. They start walking, no real direction, though Lafayette claims to have an idea of his end goal. 

“There was a map,” he says, “In the hatch, on the wall. Samuel, who was there with me, he painted it.”  
“I’ve never seen it,” says John, squinting at the sun in his eyes.  
“You need— um. I don’t know the word, but the paint was lemon juice, so it was invisible. You need a certain light.”  
“Black light,” Maria says.  
“Yes. That. How’d you get away from the bastard, by the way?”  
“Told him all of you were gay. He’s not big on that either, but— y’know. At least I ain’t cheatin’ on him.”  
“He’s not scared of me or Peggy?” asks Theodosia, chewing on a mango she had grabbed from camp before leaving.  
“Peggy’s just a kid, he thinks— not that he didn’t fuckin’ convince me to marry him when I was their age, and you’re. You’re. I don’t know why he’s not afraid of you.”  
“Wait, you married him when you were _eighteen_?” asks Hercules.  
“My ma and I didn’t get along, he told me he could show me the world. I was a kid. I said yes.”  
“I’m nineteen, actually,” adds Peggy, “My birthday was five days ago.  
“Why didn’t you tell me?”  
“Didn’t think you would care? Sisters knew, John knew, a few others did too.”  
“I love birthdays.”  
“I’ll keep that in mind next year.”  
“Fuck,” says John, “Don’t joke about that, man, we’re gonna be rescued. I know it.”  
“Can you see the future?”  
“Maybe I can. You don’t know shit about me, Maria.”

 

—

  _October 27, 2012_

Peggy’s first kiss is at a high school mixer, with a girl who goes to the same school as them. Which sort of defeats the point of a mixer, says the girl, named Matty, a year younger than her, a softball player. She tasted like chocolate chip cookies, and always wore lavender. 

Peggy’s father never really finds out the Peggy likes girls, or that Peggy isn’t exactly a girl, but Peggy doesn’t mind much. So long as they do well in school and don’t either be in a long-term relationship with a thirty-seven year old British M.P. or get pregnant before the age of twenty-two, they’re not the disappointment, as sad as that is for their sisters. Peggy envies them a little, a little bit freer to fuck up because there’s no precedent. But Peggy has to be the perfect one. Their father still loves the others, of course, but Peggy is his favorite. They’d like to maintain that position.

Angelica’s still the smart one, Eliza’s still the one who’ll probably save humanity. But Peggy’s the one who can do no wrong, and that’s good. That works. 

Matty understands. Matty says that she’s afraid of her dad finding out too, that her brother in college doesn’t visit anymore because he’s scared of her dad finding out.

They’re worried together, and it works, between the two of them, until it doesn’t, but they remain friends. They room together, Peggy’s senior year, bring in girlfriends, who they give shovel talk to.

It’s nice, Peggy thinks, to find someone who understands it.

 

—

  _September 21, 2015_

Eliza is nice, Philip decides, Eliza is the nicest person Philip has ever met. She teaches him how to beatbox, which makes Alex laugh.

“You’re way cooler than my brother, y’know,” she says, one day, “His name is Philip too.”  
“Really?”  
“It’s a common name, I guess,” she says, and shrugs, “We call him PJ, though.”  
“My name’s actually Felipe.”  
“Hm,” says Eliza, “But you go by Philip?”  
“Yeah, but our foster family called us English names. Because they weren't technically our foster parents or something? I don’t know, I was really young.”  
“You talkin’ about Ned?” asks Alex. He loves Ned, Philip doesn’t really feel either way about him.  
“Kinda?”  
“Ned’s our foster brother. Everyone thought we were twins,” Alex says, big smile. He sits down on the sand, throws his arm around Eliza’s shoulder. Alex and Eliza are very close, Philip knows, but he worries about John, in the middle of this— Philip hates love triangles, it’s why he moved up from the young adult section. He didn’t think they were real, that they could actually happen, until recently.

Eliza helps him write a song, as the day goes on, Alex laughs at it, he contributes, which is nice. It’s been hard to see people happy, lately, after last week, it’s been too quiet. Philip is okay with the quiet, but in excess, it stresses him out. A lot about life stresses Philip out.

He wonders what school is like, lately, he wonders if that boy who he got into a fight with on the last day of school last year is wondering where he’s been. He wonders if his teachers have heard where he is, if they’re worried, if Ms. Ramirez is concerned. He’s her favorite, he knows, she must be worried.

But he ignores the idea of people thinking he’s dead, because he’s not. 

“You’re getting freckly,” says Alexander at lunch, with a smile in the right corner of his mouth.  
“I guess so,” he says.  
“The kids at school are gonna be so jealous when you get back, you got a month off of school.”

He laughs, but he doesn’t want to think about it.

 

—

_June 2, 2015_  

Eacker had it coming, he knows, for saying Philip’s mom was stupid. Ms. Birch, however, doesn’t seem to get it, and believes George when he says that Philip did it unprompted. And arguing is pointless, because Ms. Birch keeps calling him to calm down. He heard Sofía call her Ms. Bitch once, but he read online that a lot of women don’t like being called that word, so he avoids it. Eacker had hit first too, was the thing, Philip had yelled and defended himself. That was all.  
  
“I won’t hesitate to call your parents, Philip.”  
“He doesn’t have ‘em,” Eacker says, rolling his eyes. Philip wants to punch him again, but he holds himself back.  
“You gotta call my brother, and he’s off at college, he’s got finals today and the LSAT soon, so I wouldn’t wanna disturb him,” he says, a little smugly, glaring at Eacker, who looks like he’s about to laugh.  
“It’s the last day,” says Birch, sighing a little, “Philip, I’m not gonna— you have to promise to not hurt people again.”  
“Tell that to George,” he says, because the bruise on his stomach would like to contest.  
“You too, George.”

Philip manages to get a seat on the subway home, and he collapses on his bed when he gets there. Alex brings back a carton of ice cream to celebrate another year done, which is good.

He doesn’t tell Alex about the fight, he doesn’t think he ever will. It could have been worse, he decides, through a mouth of rainbow sprinkles.

 

—

  _September 21, 2015_

Peggy stays close to the crowd, by instinct, doesn’t let themself fall behind. They looks over their shoulder. Hercules holds their hand, when they ask him too. Lafayette bounds forward with seemingly endless energy, determination. He’s possessed.

“You sure you remember the map?” asks John.  
“Wait, which station are you looking for?” asks Theodosia.  
“You know the map?”  
“Of course I do.”  
“The one— with the question mark?”  
“The Monmouth, then. Yeah, we’re going the right way.”  
  
John is asking question after question to Theodosia now, like everyone had when they first found her.

“I told someone that I’m spying on you, he said to come back mid-October. So I have two weeks to figure out a plan,” she says, “And obviously, none of you are spies.”  
“When I was a kid, I went to the spy museum,” says Hercules, “Always thought it would be cool to be one.”  
“Wasn’t there some movie about a tailor-spy?”  
“Nah, it was a musical,” says Maria.  
“Hm,” says Hercules, “Never heard of it. Not big on theater.And you are, Maria?”

Peggy heard about the musical, obviously, but they don’t say anything about it.

“Wait—“ says Theodosia, “Turn here.”  
  
They do. Lafayette rips a branch out of his way, after it hits him in the face, and there is a sight Peggy is a little more than confused by.

“I’ve never actually been here,” says Theodosia.  
“Why is there a question mark on the ground?”  
“Mystery,” says Theodosia, “I don’t know. The only station I know well is the Hill.”  
“Because you rely upon the labor of others to survive,” says Lafayette, a tad bitter.  
“I wanted to get you out.”  
“Well,” he says, “You didn’t.”

Maria is on the ground, searching for an entrance, and she stumbles upon a handle, yells for Peggy to help. They don’t know why Maria called for them, but they help pull anyway.

There’s a ladder for them to follow, and so they follow it down. Hercules and Theodosia follow, and Lafayette props up the door.

It’s similar to the Hill, inside, dark fluorescents and a leaky roof. It’s a little more claustrophobic, a little less likely to cave in upon itself. Lafayette is shaking.

Hercules and John have found a projector, which they flip on.

There’s a man on the screen, and Peggy opens their mouth to speak, but no words come out.

 

—

 

He says: 

“Hello, I'm Dr. Sky, and this is the orientation film for Station 5 of Revolutionary Initiative. Station 5, or the Monmouth, is a monitoring station where the activities of participants in the Hill can be observed and recorded -- not only for posterity, but for the ongoing refinement of the Initiative as a whole. Careful observation in the only key to true and complete awareness. Your tour of duty will last 3 weeks and during this time you and your partner will observe the psychological experiment in progress. Your duty is to observe team members at another station on the Island, the Hill. These team members are not aware that they are under surveillance, or that they are the subjects of an experiment. Working in 8 hour shifts, you and your partner will record everything you observe in the notebooks we provided. What is the nature of the experiment, you might ask? What do these subjects believe they are accomplishing as they struggle to fulfill their tasks? You, as the observer, don't need to know. All you need to know is the subjects believe their job is of the utmost importance. Thank you, and—“

Hercules turns it off.

 

—

 

John reaches out for Lafayette, who is backed into a corner.

“That’s my dad,” Peggy manages to say, “That’s… that’s my dad.”  
“What the fuck,” says Theodosia at the same time, no question at the end.

“We should go,” says Maria, and Lafayette doesn’t move. Peggy begins to climb up the ladder, Maria follows. They can hear yelling, underground, and Maria says, quietly, “It’s not your fault.”  
“That’s my dad, and he— and he made people live like that!”  
“It’s not you.”  
“But he—“  
“What he does to others isn’t your own goddamned fault, Peggy, _I should know_. You wouldn’t do that, that’s what matters.”

Peggy sits down, and Maria holds their hand.

“It’s okay,” she says, quieter than usual, “It’s okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] i've lived in dc my whole life and i've never once been to the spy museum. my friends from out of town say it's cool, though, so.  
> [2] i have the entire au of the amrev down for this fic i hate myself  
> [3] this is the best titled episode of lost  
> [4] Character Connections Are The Only Thing I Care About  
> [5] thanks for 100 kudos! it's weird to know that that many people have enjoyed this!
> 
> if you wanna see me being bitter about lost, follow me on tumblr @oceanicairline  
> if you wanna see me being Chill, follow me on twitter @farmerefuted  
> if you wanna talk about this fic with me, please leave comments! i need attention to survive
> 
> love y'all


	16. live together; die alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> or: lafayette reacts, eliza is confused and upset, burr and theodosia bond, and the author thinks a lot about their favorite character from lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellloooooo.
> 
> um. so main point is: tonys last night. did y'all see daveed and daniel dae kim (jin! from lost!) hug. if you didn't, that's my icon now, so you can see it there.
> 
> im really tired and work is Hard but that damn hug inspired me to write this chapter.
> 
> i love you all, readers! stay strong stay strong stay strong. the plot of this chapter is very confusing and im sorry for that. i needed to set up a lot of content really quickly to catch up with my planning doc and it got a little out of hand.
> 
> warnings for: explosions! betrayal! mentions of sex! implications of suicide! kind of death but not really! anger! injury! one word of french repeated, and i don't speak french so it's probably wrong!
> 
> enjoy!

_September 22, 2015_

Lafayette is shaking. He doesn’t often sleep, but especially not tonight. Hercules is next to him in his tent, said he’d stay up to help deal with whatever Lafayette might be feeling, (and also swearing that when they got off the island, he’d kick Philip Schuyler’s ass into oblivion), but fell asleep after four or so hours. He looks softer, when he sleeps, and Lafayette hasn’t moved his hand from Hercules’ shoulder all night. The silver key tied around Lafayette’s chest feels cold on his body, and it presses into his heart.

It doesn’t do anything, anyway, he tells himself. Everything he knows, everything he has known for the past three years, at least, is a lie. Hercules Mulligan’s chest rises and falls, outlined in the dark. 

Three years wasted for this, he thinks, and then, Adrienne is gone for nothing. For an experiment. For Philip Schuyler’s entertainment. He can’t take it out on Schuyler’s children, he says to himself, but he cannot help but to be angry at them. It’s irrational on his behalf. 

It’s strange, he thinks, that he didn’t realize it was Schuyler sooner. He’s never been good at facial recognition, 

“Viens,” says a voice outside his tent. It is probably Alexander, he thinks, although it is not Alexander’s voice, it is a voice he knows too well, and he denies it, and denies it, and it repeats, “Viens.”

He takes his hand off of Hercules’ shoulder, going in-and-out as he breathes. His fingers twitch like he’s playing a piano, he thinks about the notes that would play. B-D-G-A-G-D, he thinks, and then it repeats in his head. He breathes in and out, pulls his legs up and walks outside. 

“Viens,” says the voice. There is a figure that the voice is coming from. He blinks to snap back into himself, he exhales, as she is still there, and he follows the figure. The sand is cold on his feet, he can smell saltwater more clearly than he has in all of his weeks here. He swears he hears someone following him, but ignores it.

 

—

  _March 8, 2013_

“So,” says Sam, brushing off the computer, “I will be heading out today. To do some Research.”  
“I can come too, no?”  
“You should man the computer.”  
“I am a scientist, Sam. I am very good at research.”  
“It’s dangerous. There’s only one hazmat suit.”  
“I am familiar with danger, Samuel.”  
“No _t this_ danger,” he says. Lafayette sighs. It’s claustrophobic here, it’s been two months since he arrived. He wants to leave, to at least breathe in air that isn’t full of dust.

He listens instead, he complies. He can be patient, he thinks.

 

—

  _September 22, 2015_

She is as beautiful as he remembers her, maybe more. Her hair is different— her braids are longer. Her eyes have a different look in them, her mouth is not smiling. She is still Adrienne— he has changed so much, too, he cannot blame her. He has not smiled, lately, not often. This place is death, all-encompassing if you’ve been here too long.

She does not greet him, and stops him before he jumps into her arms, a gesture with her hands that speaks volumes, and he listens, he could never deny her anything, back when she was alive and not a figure in the dark, beaconing him. He wonders if this is what death is, and if she is Death themself. He does not say this aloud. She begins to walk forward, not looking at him, and he follows.

They walk until they are at the hatch, and he considers turning around but the voice commands him once more, says his name this time, rolling all the syllables perfectly, like they should be said. Like they haven’t been said in years. 

And then, “Viens,” she says, calmly, and she blows away like she’s dust, like she’s smoke in the wind. He isn’t surprised.He opens the door to the hatch, descends. He feels trapped, but he keeps walking, like something’s willing him forward. He knows what he has to do. 

John and Alexander are lounging, Alex’s shirt unbuttoned. 

“Laf,” says Alex, nervously, “We were just—“  
“What’re you doing here?” asks John, direct, straight to the point. He’s not rude, but confrontational.  
“You have to leave,” Lafayette says, voice shaking more than he would like it to.  
“What’s up?”  
“You saw the film—“  
“I saw the film, and I don’t give a shit.”  
“Like I was saying,” says Alex, “Even if this is all some social experiment, or whatever the fuck whatever you all saw today, it’s nice to have a,” he pauses, “Quiet place.”  
“He knows we were fucking.”  
“I know, the evidence is right here.”  
“No need to be subtle,” Lafayette says, laughing a little, “I just want to test something.”  
“You gonna run the timer out?”  
“Uh,” says Lafayette.  
“We were gonna try it too,” says Alex, “Thirty minutes left.”  
“It was my idea. He was worried about it at first,” John shakes his head, almost laughs. 

Lafayette breathes a sigh of relief, that he isn’t the only one of everyone concerned about this.

“You might die,” says Lafayette.

Neither of them react, like the phrase has no weight to it. Alex throws a rubber ball at the wall. 

“No shortcuts, then,” he says at their silence, and, in a move he knows he could come to regret later, he punches the computer straight through the screen. His knuckles burn, but he ignores it.  
“Shit,” says Alex. John throws a rubber ball at the wall, laughs a little.  
“All out,” he says.  
“Indeed.”

 

—

_August 9, 2014_

He sees Sam drunk on the floor, holding a bottle of wine in one hand, clutching something Lafayette can’t see in the other.

“I was a priest,” Sam says, “I was a priest before they hired me.”  
“You told me,” says Lafayette, because Sam has.  
“I had a congregation, they loved me,” he says, “They respected me, and one of them, one of them told me that these people, this… Initiative, needed me. Me specifically. I felt important.”  
“And so you came.”  
“And so I came,” he says, and then he hiccups.  
“I would have died if you had not come,” Lafayette supplies.  
“You still will.”  
“But you… what is the word? Slow— no— _delayed_ — yes, that!— it.”  
“You’re welcome.”

He dangles something silver out of his clutched hand.

“This destroys this hole,” he says. Lafayette squints. A key, “There’s a little… compartment, and there’s a— what’s the word.”  
“Lock,” says Lafayette. He remembers that one.  
“Keyhole? Keyhole. And If you turn the key in the keyhole, the whole thing.”

Sam gestures with his hands, makes a whooshing noise.

“Why have you not done it?”  
“Chaos— not a solution.”  
“Chaos can be a solution.”  
“But it’s not mine. I am— I am a man of God, of Christ. I know that He would not look well upon me if I were to—“  
“Kill yourself.”  
“Yes.”

Sam exhales, hiccups again, “Take this,” he says, throws the key at Lafayette.

 

—

   _September 22, 2015_

Twenty minutes, says the timer, and twenty minutes, says John. Lafayette laughs. He has an adrenaline high, is more energetic than he’s been in years. Something spits out of a hole in the system unit as Alex stands up to stretch— papers. He didn’t know there was paper inside of that, but he’s not interested enough. Alex, however, picks it up, begins reading it.

“Six-thirty. Four eight fifteen sixteen twenty-three forty-two accepted.”  
“Sorry?”  
“Over and over again. With different numbers up front. That’s what it says.”  
“It records everything you do. The movie said that that’s what the people in there were doin’, must be an extra precaution” says John, catching Alex’s ball. He raises an eyebrow, as he says this, then shrugs.

It’s quiet for a few minutes, ten left on the clock at the next sound, from around the corner.

“What the _hell_ are you three doing?” says Eliza, around the corner when John asks out loud who is there. Lafayette didn’t know she was down here, didn’t even know she could yell— neither did Alex or John, it looks like, at least the first half, “Lafayette, there is no need to be _so damn loud_ when you get out of your tent.”  
“We’re—“  
“Yeah, I heard,” Eliza looks legitimately angry, “And personally,” she says, “I think that this is poorly thought out. Very. You three are just— risking your own deaths? For an experiment? For fun?”  
“Wasn’t it your father who set this whole… you said experiment… up?” Lafayette says, ruder than he intends to.  
“You think I know anything about this? You think— do you think I knew about this island? That I knew you’d been stuck here? I just— you three need to _stay alive._ If not for yourselves, than for the rest of us.”  
“And we _will_ , Bets,” says Alex, rolling his eyes, “This whole thing is a social experiment, remember?”  
“And Lafayette, I have a question for you, too—“ she says, seething, “What in God’s name is the black rock? Rocher Noir. In your little broadcast. ”  
“It’s a ship,” he says, “It’s in the jungle. There is no need to yell.”  
“I’m _just saying_ — I’m not the one withholding information!”  
John is quieter than usual, reading the papers from the computer.

“Nine-two, System Failure System Failure System Failure,” he says, “Nine-two— September second. That’s the day we crashed.”

Eliza and Alex bicker in the background, and Lafayette can feel the earth shaking beneath his feet, remembering the day.  
  
And it clicks all at once, like puzzle pieces, like he’s already known it in some corner of his mind.

 

—

  _September 2, 2015_  

He doesn’t mean anything he does that day. He does mean to sneak out, of course— three years, he can’t resist breaking out. He’s trapped. If he dies out there— so be it. So be it. He’ll see Adrienne again, see his team again.

But everything after that— it’s not his fault.

He’s usually a practical man. Doesn’t start anything he doesn’t plan out thoroughly beforehand. Today, it’s all improv.

He follows Sam out of the hatch, not wearing a hazmat because the one hazmat they have is ripped anyways. He runs though a jungle, the light burning his eyes, the heat making him sick. He follows Sam. Follows him. 

And he sees metal in the ocean off of a cliff, and he sees a blanket fashioned into a sail, and he sees Sam about to jump into it.

Here’s what he remembers:

He remembers Sam seeing him and falling on the run to explain, he remembers that he could hear the skull hit the metal. He remembers holding Sam’s head, he remembers the feeling of grease and blood on his skin. He remembers the light burning his eyes.

He remembers arriving back, the ground shaking under him, SYSTEM FAILURE blaring from some intercom he didn’t even know existed. It won’t let him enter the numbers. He thinks this may all be a fever dream, some sort of punishment.

There is a noise when he presses ENTER for the eightieth time, metallic, loud. It feels like it goes on forever, though in reality, it lasts only a few moments. (In hindsight, he should have realized here that everything around him was real, he knows, but emotion possesses him completely more often than not.)

Then it stops.

Then he remembers a week or so of hell, of assuming he is alone, and then, a noise. A man. 

 

—

   _September 22, 2015_

“I crashed your plane,” says Lafayette plainly, and Eliza looks up, furrows her eyebrows. Five minutes left, says the timer.

He doesn’t consider himself as self-sacrificing at all, but the metal on his chest invites him to be.

“What?” says John.  
“I said I crashed your plane. This is real.”  
“Do you have proof?”  
“John just said it. I— I left, that day, I tried to leave, and then Sam died, and I was late for the timer. And then it was— anarchy.”  
“ _A_ narchy,” says John, and Eliza shushes him.  
“The ground shook and it kept yelling system failure system failure at me and then.”  
“And then?”  
“Then it stopped when I pressed the button. This is an electric station is it not?”  
“You’ve seen the film more than we have.”  
“I’ve never seen it,” says Eliza.  
“Your dad deserves an Oscar,” says John, unconvinced still.  
“And so?”  
“We cannot fix the computer,” Lafayette says at the same moment the timer starts going, blasting. Four minutes.  
“So we’ll crash another plane?”  
“No,” says Lafayette, key pressing into his chest, “I know how to stop this.”  
“You do?”  
“Mostly.”

He kicks open every single door in the room, every single thing that could be a door. He’s frantic, Alexander follows him, even more frantic.

He enters the corridor, sees a crack in the wall that he assumed was useless— and he knows, then, he feels it. He kicks it open, and it glows. There is a keyhole in the middle of it.

Perhaps he will see Adrienne again, and perhaps she will not be dust then. Or perhaps he will be dust as well.

“You gonna be okay?”  
“I doubt it. You three— you three need to leave.”  
“Until we meet again,” says Alex, like he’s convinced they will. Like he’s convincing himself they will.

“On the other side.”

He hears SYSTEM FAILURE begin to blast, hears footsteps running. He takes the key off of its chain, and he turns it.

  
  
—

   _September 22, 2015_

The light and the noise wake Burr up. Maria too, it looks like, as she’s peeking out of her own tent. The noise goes on for minutes, until nearly everyone is up, the light begins to fade, the noise dies down.

Burr looks around at everyone— there’s screaming, chaos. He spots Theodosia, squinting at the sky, Angelica and Peggy looking around desperately for their sister, Philip doing the same for his brother, with only Madison holding him back away from the jungle. Hercules trudges out of his tent afterwards, looks around for something, someone. He walks to Burr, alone, says “You seen Lafayette?”  
“No.”  
“He was— he was right next to me.”  
“He’s not on the beach,” says Burr, and after a moment, “I’m sure, he’s— I’m sure he’s fine.”  
“I’m not,” says Hercules, and he falls into uncharacteristic silence. He’s usually laughing, usually at least smiling.  
  
Theodosia looks at the ground, across the beach. Aaron considers asking her for answers, but stops himself.

The sun begins to rise,Aaron lets himself exhale, inhale, exhale.

It takes an hour or so of panic before Eliza walks out of the woods, unable to describe what happened to her. She has a cut on her forehead, says that Hamilton is helping Laurens with his leg, which he hurt. She doesn’t know where Lafayette is, but he was with them when it happened.

She then says, “The hatch is gone.”  
“Gone as in—?“  
“Gone as in it _imploded_ , Maria.”  
“Eliza, I have— plenty of questions, obviously.”  
“Washington, I can’t talk right now. I’m bleeding out of my head, maybe on the verge of a panic attack, and need to be with my siblings. Excuse me.”  
  
And she goes with them. Maria follows her, which is suspicious, considering as far as Aaron knows, she and Angelica still hate each other. Desperate times, he supposes.

Desperate times.

“I think,” says Theodosia, approaching him, and he’s just noticed how much taller than him she is, “I think that your friend Lafayette is,” and she stops there. The implication is there.  
“Hold out hope,” he says, “Wait for the answers.”  
“I wish I could,” she says, and she touches his shoulder, not unkindly, “Just, with that man— Thomas and with… having been here for so long, you sort of. Begin to anticipate death, almost.”  
“I understand,” he says, because he does.  
“I wish I could be more optimistic. It just feels weird to worry about deaths that we don’t know of— and that it might be my fault, or someone I care about’s fault, here!”  
“I’m not an optimist either,” he says, “I just try to deny my pessimism.”  
“Still better than not trying at all.”  
“And it’s not your fault.”  
“You don’t know that.”  
“You didn’t immediately cause it.”

She’s silent, for a while after that. taps her fingers on the sand, irregularly. 

He stays with her, then, surprised to enjoy her company. She’s comforting in this sort of time, swears she doesn’t know anything that could have happened, and he believes her, by some sort of miracle. She’s quite young, he realizes, comments that she graduated university early, though not quite as early as him.

And when she starts flirting, he hits back, and they act like what’s happening is normal, like it’s real life and not some sort of, as she calls it, “bizarro sci-fi plot.” 

He’s charmed.  


Hamilton and Laurens show up in the middle of the afternoon, Laurens limping and Hamilton trudging along to give him support. Philip almost knocks them both over upon seeing them, but backs off at the injury. Washington corners them, begins asking questions, which the two of them fire back at with a little more anger than Burr feels is necessary, he doesn’t want them to give off a bad impression to anyone, (as if they already hadn’t, he supposes, the two of them are like a house on fire in terms of both compatibility and impact on everyone around them.)

“Where’s Lafayette?” someone shouts above all the arguing, and Alex looks puzzled.  
“He’s not back yet?” asks John.  
“No,” says Abigail Smith-Adams, almost urgently.  
“I have no idea,” says Alex, brushing his hair back with his fingers, nervous, “I don’t know at all.”

—

 

His life flashes before his eyes, every single moment, all of them conscious of his present. It feels like reliving every single second of his life, but it goes by so quickly.

He wants to tell Adrienne no, when she mentions the grant, he wants to tell Philip Schuyler to fuck off and leave him and his friends, his family, alone. But he doesn’t, some force holds him back.

And then he wakes up, in the jungle, with a noise in his head that won’t stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god im tired and i love desmond david hume from hit abc series lost ...
> 
> please leave comments i feed off of them for survival
> 
> hmu on tumblr @oceanicairline twitter @farmerefuted or check out my other fics if you like! i got a bunch of west wing inspired one shots out now if yr into that.
> 
> anyways. have a lovely lovely day you're great bye!


End file.
